Silk Flowers

Sh*t My Husband Says

2010-11-11T19:02:00.001-08:00

(spills food on his new Hanes undershirt) "Damn. And I was going to wear this to the prom."

Workin' for the Man every night and day

2010-06-01T10:12:00.000-07:00

So here's a question that's been coming up a lot lately: How do you define personal success?
For most of my life I defined success only in terms of career. A high-paying job, and therefore money in the bank and the ability to buy stuff, meant one person was more successful than another. That's why I went back to school and got a degree: education was supposed to increase the odds of getting a high-paying job. That's how I was raised. My mom sacrificed a lot to pay the bills, and in exchange I learned that work, sometimes, is the most important thing in the world. Work is what pays the bills, after all. Who cares if you're happy? That's why it's called work. "Welcome to the real world," as my mom's husband used to say.
The other reason I went back to school: my boyfriend at the time was working on a master's in architecture. His best friends were all working on doctorates. Some of them were globally-renowned scholars. All of them were extremely bright, enterprising, and "successful." Then there was me, with my laser-printed film school diploma, working 50 hours a week for a wage that toed the poverty line. I told my boyfriend that I felt "beneath" him and his friends. I wasn't on their "level." He told me that was silly, education doesn't necessarily equal intelligence... but that's the kind of thing you can only truly say after you've been to school, know what I mean? So I went back to school, because I didn't want to be beneath them.
Then H. entered the picture, and his worldview is so different from mine. He doesn't care about money or status or being "equal" with anyone. He doesn't feel the need to put on a show, or pretend to be something he's not. I can't necessarily say he's happy all the time, but it feels like he knows who he is. The other day a friend of ours described him as "just a completely genuine person." They said it was so refreshing to be around someone who wasn't pompous or loud or arrogant, someone who wasn't putting on a show or trying to attract attention.
Maybe this is the lesson I need to learn. I mean, I know my outlook has to change. I've graduated into one of the worst economies in years. Despite what the government says, people are losing jobs left and right. Professionals are taking jobs they're seriously over-qualified for, at drastic pay cuts, just to keep working. I mean, when I apply for a job, I'm competing against people with 10 or sometimes even 20 years more experience than me. It makes sense that people rarely call me back. If I define my life according to my title, or my bank balance, I'm always going to be unsatisfied. And if I set off in blind pursuit of titles and bank balances, ignoring the other parts of life, I might get rich... but I'll also lose all the things that make life what it is.
So I'm redefining the word "success." I still want "a job, a good job, one that satisfies my artistic needs" as the drunk guy says in Sid & Nancy. But a job isn't a LIFE, you know?
If you knew when you were going to die, what would you have to achieve in order to honestly say you lived well?

And Another Thing...

2010-04-16T10:59:00.000-07:00

My class gave a (sorta) public reading last night, but I was cut due to shyness and time constraints. I had friends there, waiting to hear me read, and I feel bad I didn't do it. So here's what I would've read if I had been 1) not shy, 2) not sick, 3) not an hour late to my own (group) readings, and 4) not distracted by the old man blowing bubbles on the street. Anyways, here it is. Actually, here's a bit more... it felt like everyone went over their allotted time, so you know what? I'm gonna do it too.

Oh wait. Okay. First I should explain who everyone is. Henrik is my husband. Pia is his mom, Goran is his dad, Daniel is his brother. No, I'm not married to a famous NHL player, just a regular Swede. "Farmor" means "father's mother" in Swedish: "Farfar" means "father's father." Likenes is a small town in Western Sweden.

This is from chapter 1 of that book I keep saying I'm working on. The chapter's called "Christmas Traditions."

Pia points to a yellow farmhouse.
“This house? My uncle used to live there. He hung himself in the attic. He thought he had cancer.”
Goran asks if they have yellow houses in Canada. I say I can’t remember.
Concrete blocks sprout like weeds along the side of the highway. Henrik says they’re remnants of World War 2, preparation against the Nazi tanks that moved through the Swedish countryside. Why didn’t they take them down after the war, I wonder. They look so out-of-place.
Henrik had told me his grandparents lived way up in the mountains. Nothing really there except trees and snow, and maybe some wolves. At night, he said, you could hear the wolves’ howls on the wind. You could hear the sun set, hear the snow fall. The closer we get to Likenes, the more I notice the rusted farming equipment, abandoned houses, and boarded-up shops on the side of the road. Decay with no renewal. Like the land wants to be forgotten. If I had been looking for Likenes on my own, I wouldn't have found it.
We turn left onto a dirt road. By this time it’s snowing, it had been snowing in the mountains for a long time, and the car jolts back and forth over the banks and dips in the road. We pull up in front of a tiny red cabin.
The cabin has a small porch at the front, and there are some decorations hidden under the snow: a metal globe with an arrow on top, some kind of sled, a stack of wood. A wheelchair ramp leads up to the front door. Behind the house is another red building, smaller than the first. Henrik tells me this is the “guest house.” Beside that, a large building that could only be a barn. I wonder if the grandparents ever had animals in the barn. Henrik tells me they used to, but not now, because they’re old and there are too many wolves around.
Farfar opens the front door before we have a chance to knock. He smiles and winks at me in that grandfatherly way, his thick slippers shuffling across the wood floor. He’s a tall man, taller than I expected him to be, and his hand is shaking when I take it in mine. His eyes light up when he sees Henrik. “Heyhey!” he says, and throws his arm around Henrik’s shoulder.
To the left is a tiny kitchen, and everyone in it is doing something: a white-haired man scoops coffee into a coffee maker, a short woman in jeans folds cold-cuts onto a plate. Pia gets to work peeling potatoes. Goran takes a seat at the kitchen table, and Henrik sits down beside him. Daniel and I stand in the doorway. Right in the middle of the room, the elderly Farmor holds court from her wheelchair. There’s barely room for all of us to stand in the kitchen, let alone sit and drink coffee and chat. But it is warm. So warm. And inviting. No-one wants to leave, but the kitchen is too small to hold us, so Henrik, Daniel and I are sent to the grocery store for a Christmas cake.

I’m sure I’ve had happy Christmases, but I can’t remember them anymore. My most vivid Christmas memories are the bad ones, like the time my stepfather almost knocked over the Christmas tree because mom couldn’t find the engagement ring he'd hidden in the branches. He proposed to her by saying “fuck, you’re useless. Do you get it? Do you understand what I’m asking you?”
Or the year I decided to learn how to cook. So instead of giving gifts, I bought a giant turkey and invited the family to mom’s house for dinner. My step-grandpa went on a tirade about the “Jew Conspiracy,” then turned to my grandpa Lyman and said “Lyman, that’s a Jew name, isn’t it?”
Or the year stepfather and his friend helped me move into a new apartment, then drove me home from college. The friend was drinking beer, driving too fast, throwing bottles at street signs. I asked him to slow down.
“Fuck,” he said, “you’re just like your mother.”
In his mind, this was the worst insult ever.

We had to drive to the next town over, Susslebeck, to find a grocery store. On the drive, I asked Henrik and Daniel about their grandparents.
“Have they always lived in Likenes?”
“I think so,” says Henrik, “they grew up across the street from each other.”
He points out the car window. “Right over there, that’s where grandma lived. And grandpa grew up across the street from her. And when they got married, they built their house… well, yeah, they’ve always been here.”
The Klarälven River winds parallel to the road, thick with ice, yellow and cracked and dangerous. It doesn’t look like ice at all. The road is muddy. In the distance I see plumes of smoke rising from chimneys.
“And up there is the ski resort,” Henrik says. “It’s, like, brand new. All the German tourists come here.” I look up, but the sky is cloudy, and I can’t see anything.
The grocery store is empty save for the cashier. Ours is the only car in the parking lot. We buy a marzipan cake with a picture of Santa on it, but it doesn’t really look like the Santa I know.
By the time we get back, dinner is almost ready. A smorgasbord has been set out with fish, meatballs, sausages, cheese, boiled potatoes, pickled beets, and more things that I can’t remember. No turkey except for some cold cuts. No gravy. A giant dining table has been set up in the living room. Henrik, Daniel and I (the “kids”, they said, though I was the youngest at 27) move all the chairs into the living room, leaving a path for grandma’s wheelchair to get to the head of the table. Then we take the fancy china from the cabinets, grab our plates, and get in line for food.
The pickled beets are surprisingly good. The homemade potato sausages take some getting used to. Farfar winks at me across the table as he eats. He does his best to communicate with me through smiles and hand gestures: a small bow of the hands for “thank you,” a tip of the wrist for “would you like a drink?” and so on.
Henrik’s family have so many questions about Canadian Christmas. Do we eat fish at the Christmas table? Do we drink julmust? Do we get a visit from Tomte, the Christmas elf? Do we exchange gifts? I do my best to answer each question as simply as possible, with “yes” or “no”, so Henrik doesn’t have to translate for me. Sometimes he still does, though, when they look at me with that blank gaze. I wonder if that’s how I look to them too.

There’s a photo of me at the house in Likenes. I don’t know where it came from, but when I see it, tears spring to my eyes. On the wall above it, there’s a family portrait from the last Christmas Henrik had been there.
“Every year we take a Christmas picture. It’s a silly tradition, but it’s kind of nice too,” Henrik said.
“Why didn’t they take one without you?”
“I don’t know. And they should have. That one, up there, was a really bad Christmas. No-one’s smiling in that picture.”
Pia is in the kitchen washing dishes. I want to be helpful, so I offer to dry. After drying, I hold up each dish so Pia can point to its home. Farmor occasionally says something from her corner of the room, an occasional mention of my name followed by extra syllables.
The woodstove is raging. We open the window to let out the heat, and I notice some blue birds frolicking in the snow. They are the bluest birds I’ve ever seen.
Once the dishes are put away, we take a new family portrait. We position ourselves around a small plaid couch. I sit on one of the arms. Pia and Goran sit next me on the couch. Henrik and Daniel stand behind us. I make sure to smile.
The five of us pile back in the car for the drive back to Hogboda. It starts snowing outside of Torsby, and we have to go very slow through the mountains. I fall asleep on Henrik’s shoulder, and he on mine. In the background, Goran quietly hums along with the radio.
When we get back to Hogboda, everyone changes into his or her pajamas. Pia makes a pot of coffee. Goran turns on the TV. The parents and their children gather to watch ski jumping, or a hockey game, or an Agatha Christie movie: I’m not sure which, because I’m upstairs, saying I need to sleep. But I don’t need to sleep. I just need to be alone, because I don’t want my new family to see me cry.

My mom used to tell me I pushed the wrong buttons. She worked fifty hours a week, commuted an hour and a half each way. She didn’t have the time or energy to argue with him every single night. She never said it, but it was implied: he’s wrong, but it doesn’t matter. Do what he says and don’t question it. Don’t make things harder on her than they already were.
Sometimes, no matter what I did, he yelled at me. Sometimes even when I agreed with him, he called me names. “Bitch” was a favorite: “Twin Peaks,” because of my large chest, a close second.
It’s strange to sleep in a house where you know you’re not wanted. It’s even worse to know you have nowhere else to go.
My mom used to tell me when I moved out of the house, everything would be better.
“We’ll all be happier when he has me to himself,” she’d say. “That’s what he wants. That’s how much he loves me.”

Blast From the Past, yo

2010-04-16T10:40:00.000-07:00

I finished university yesterday. No, really, I did. The only thing left to do is put on the cap & gown, pick up my diploma, and maybe drink some champagne. So this morning I woke up full of energy. "I'm gonna find me a writin' job," I said. But you know? Writin' jobs are few and far between. And they all want "writing samples." What's up with that? Haha.
So I was going through my old files, seeing if there was anything I could punch up and use as a writing sample. I thought maybe a book or concert review, a press release, a formal report... you know. Whatever. Anyways, I'd forgotten about this, but the last time The Cure played in Vancouver, I wrote a review of it. And you know what? I like it. My workshop didn't seem too thrilled, but I think that's cuz they weren't really "The Cure's target market," if you know what I mean.
So I thought I'd post it here, for your reading enjoyment: here it is!

Amanda Thomson
May 30, 2008

The Cure, May 26th 2008, GM Place

You know you’re in the presence of a musical legend when the act of walking to stage left or stage right elicits shrieks of joy from five thousand people, young and old, male and female. You know you’re watching a legend when within the first five seconds of a song, the crowd is moving as one vibrating mass. You know you’re watching a legend when the mere raising and lowering of a hand can make people cry.

This was the scene at Vancouver’s GM Place this past Monday night, as Goth rockers The Cure took centre stage. The concert was the band’s first time playing in Vancouver since 1997, and even though the show (originally scheduled for October 2007) was delayed a few months, the crowd was more excited than ever. Take this piece of dialogue from the teenage girls behind me:

Oh my god, oh my god, if I see Robert Smith I’m going to scream and piss my pants.
Really?
Oh my god yes. And if they play The Walk, Fascination Street, From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea, A Forest… I’ll shit myself.
So basically if they play anything?
If they play any song, I’m going to faint. Oh my god. I’m fucking freaking out right now.

Over the course of a three and a half hour set, Robert Smith and crew DID play all those songs. Luckily, the girl behind me did not shit herself. She did scream a lot, I think… I can’t be too sure. I was screaming pretty loud too. With a set chock-full of hits like Friday I’m In Love, Lovesong, Just Like Heaven, and Let’s Go To Bed, how could any self-respecting person with dyed black hair NOT go a little nuts?

Bassist Simon Gallup and drummer Jason Cooper were low-key, leaving Smith and guitarist Porl Thompson to take over the stage. Thompson sauntered like an alien drag queen in full PVC, black makeup, and the biggest, reddest, glittery-est platform shoes I’d ever seen. Anyone who can walk in those shoes, let alone play a three and a half hour set without stumbling, has in my book earned the title of “guitar god”. But of course the real star of the show was Smith, who despite being a seasoned professional with almost 25 years of touring under his belt, was as shy and awkward (and endearing) as a three-year-old meeting one of mommy’s friends, clutching one of his many guitars as if it were the hem of her skirt. When he moved from centre stage to the left or right, the crowd erupted into screaming, arm-flailing animals. At one point he looked at me, and our eyes met, and… well, no. I’m sure he didn’t actually see me. But the collective consciousness in the stadium was such that we all knew Robert Smith was our best friend.

About half an hour in, I noticed that the songs sounded… different: more rock, less pop than the album versions. What was it? There were no keyboards; Smith played all the synthesizer lines on guitar. I have to say I liked it. One of my big complaints with The Cure’s older material is how the use of piano, saxophone, etc – staples of 80’s music – really date the sound for today’s ears. Replacing synthesizer with guitar made for a rougher, edgier, more contemporary sound.

It was a hard rocking, no-frills kind of set, with a minimum of video screens and on-stage banter. As the band moved into their encores (three in total), the transitions became faster and faster until the last set – a mix of early 80’s B-sides like Killing An Arab and 10:15 Saturday Night – flowed seamlessly from one song to the next. The band ended in true Cure form with a third and final encore of one song, (my all-time favorite) A Forest. Did Robert know it was my birthday? Did Robert know I was waiting for that one song? Of course he did. He is my best friend after all.

I

2010-01-05T09:48:00.001-08:00

had the strangest dream: my childhood had been stolen, and was hanging on the wall of an art gallery. Photos, video clips, restaurant menus, gas cans, dead animals... everything I've ever discarded in my life, stapled to the wall of a small room.

I have nothing to declare

2009-12-15T10:27:00.001-08:00

...except my genius.
...or maybe bankruptcy. No! Just kidding!

Feminism and Writing

2009-11-19T12:30:00.000-08:00

Here's something that's been bugging me: on Monday I'm in writing class, and we're work shopping this essay about two girls: one's a stay-at-home hippie earth mother kind of chick, while the other works in a giant glass building in downtown Vancouver, and the point of the essay is (to me, anyways) that career does not necessarily equal happiness, but then again neither does family. The last line of that article was about how feminism is supposed to be about choices - but that was the first and only time the word was used.
One of the guys in the class said that using the word "feminism" is a bad move because the word has a lot of "negative connotations", meaning when they hear it they think of man-hating bull dykes (my words, not theirs). They suggested the author take the word out altogether.
I said "nuh-uh", it should be the other way around, the article is ABOUT feminism and the word should be explored on a deeper level: what does it actually mean in today's liberated society? Most of the girls in class agreed with me (or blushed and kept their mouths shut), and the prof said the intended audience of the piece was female, so it made sense.
Here's the part that bugs me though: I said the word "feminism" and the guy sitting next to me moved his chair away. He was joking, of course, and moved it right back, but... I didn't realize feminism was so dangerous to young men. Maybe I'm spoiled from living with H., who's possibly even more of a feminist than I am, but I was really shocked by that reaction. I don't think I'm a militant anything, and I wasn't trying to push any agendas on my classmates. All I said was that the article was about feminism. Then he moved his chair. Then I said "I think that proves the point: it's a dangerous word, obviously a misunderstood one, so it should be explored further. Feminism's not about man-hating chicks burning their bras anymore: it's about individual choice, and having the freedom to live life however you want to. In fact, in the context of this essay I'd argue that the stay-at-home mom is more of a feminist, because she's being who she is instead of doing what people expect her to do."
I said it again: "there's obviously a lot of controversy surrounding this word, and I think exploring the controversy is a lot more interesting to a reader, so I say run with it."
And the guy next to me was like "I say avoid it, because it's opening a can of worms."
....and the author said "I think I'll change the scope of the piece: originally it was aimed at a female audience, which is why I kept the word "feminism" in there, but after hearing what the guys have to say I think I'll aim the next draft at a general audience."
And I felt like I failed. Not that I was pushing an agenda, because I wasn't, I was arguing about the article itself. I thought it would have been much stronger if it explored the dangerousness of the word "feminism". Maybe I'm biased, but I think the piece would be much stronger (and interesting) that way, and also, I don't think the story will WORK as well for a general audience. I don't know. Mostly, I've been agitated about the guy moving his chair away, because I really like the guy and didn't expect him to do something like that (even as a joke).
I'm sorry to keep going on about it, but there's one more part to the story. So last week, I'm having trouble with my own article (which is about derby: I've told you about that) because I don't actually get to skate with the other girls until the 26th, but my workshop draft was due this past Monday. So I have a meeting with my prof, and he says "okay, what are your options?"
My options were:
1) submit an incomplete draft
2) write around the actual skating (which I didn't want to do, because it's the best part of the piece)
3) expand the focus so the article isn't just about roller derby: I suggested making it about derby and burlesque, how they relate to Third Wave feminism (which I didn't know much about: it's a phrase I came across in my derby research) because there are a lot of similarities between the two things.
4) write something completely different in the next few days: I had a good idea, but he said right away I should do #3.

I agreed: it was the most compelling of the four choices. But, I said to him, the word "feminism" is loaded, and I don't want to be seen as the crazy militant feminist chick: writing about feminism at all is likely to get me branded as a man-hating lesbian. It happened last year, I told him, when I wrote about my trip to Sweden and how Selma Lagerlof's writing appealed to me more than Hemingway's. A guy said THAT statement made me a "female chauvinist" and I was like "whaaaa?"
So I explained to my prof that I was worried using the word "feminism", let alone writing a whole article about it, was going to get me branded. He says "you know, there's always going to be people who get upset. It doesn't matter what you do. You should worry when people AREN'T upset by your writing, not when they are, because if no-one cares, you're doing something wrong."
The proper thing for a writing prof to say. But now, after Monday's class, I'm very worried about the male reaction to my article. It's not like I ever say "men are evil" or "men are keeping women down" or anything of the sort: most of the article, when it touches on feminism, is about the idea of "femininity," not misogyny. Men don't really come into play in the piece, except in one section where I talk about how back in the 70's the players didn't own their own teams - they were paid a small salary, and the promoters (all men, that's just the way it was) reaped the profits. But now most leagues promote themselves, and most teams are structured as non-profit organizations.
But that one section, I describe the average 70's roller derby promoter as a guy with "oiled hair and mutton chops, smoking a cigar and wiping his nose on the sleeve of his leisure suit." Which is, you know, the sleazy 70's. But I'm sure someone will read into that, and once again I'll be branded a "female misogynist", and... why the hell do I let it bother me?
Because I feel like I have no friends. I talk to people in class, but I'm the oldest person in the class (minus the prof) by a good 4 or 5 years. Most of the time, I sit there quietly, reading a book, answering questions when called upon, but I don't speak up because a) I don't want to say something stupid, or b) I don't want to say something that comes across as unintentionally bitchy, misanthropic, or... worst of the worst... OLD. I just want to blend in, you know, make the class as painless on myself as possible. So rocking the boat by using the word "feminism" is a stupid thing for me to do. But at the same time, I want to write things that interest me, and derby is interesting, and in my research I found you can't bring up derby without talking about feminism. So basically I screwed myself, and we'll see what happens on Monday. Hopefully the critiques will be about my bad writing, not about my female chauvinism. But we'll see.
What do you think - is the word feminism loaded with connotations?

randoms

2009-11-05T23:00:00.000-08:00

why do I only write when I've had some sips of alcohol?
And why, oh why, don't I write more?
I am writing, my friends. I am. Just not to you ;) Formal reports, school assignments, and pithy Facebook status updates are taking all of my time.
But soon! soon there will be a break in my studies. Soon my musical friends will have news. Soon there will be a new video. Soon I'll have time to start that new blog I've been talking about.
here's what I've been doing lately:
learning about roller derby - I have skates! I've used them once so far (got them on Tuesday), and fell on my ass. HARD. Multiple times. But, you know, the pain wasn't so bad. I mean, it hurt. But I got back up. And when the rain subsides, I'm excited to get back out there and skate again. And, in a few weeks, I'm trying out for a spot on a roller derby team. It's really awesome, and at the same time, really stupid. I shouldn't do contact sports at all, seeing as how I only have one kidney, and if anything happens to it I'm screwed. But... I WANT TO, you know? I want to be a tough bitch. I want to be part of a team of tough bitches. I can strap on a padded belt and be fine, right?
have you ever noticed that derby girls wear far less protective padding than hockey players?
copyediting. Not that you can tell from my blogging style... but I'm actually pretty good at it. I know my writing is horrible, but no-one's paying me to correct it, so I don't really care :)
drinking! I'm excellent at it. I'm drunk right now, can't you tell?

I'm thinking the new blog will be a videoblog, so it'll be pretty Youtube-dependent, but I think it will be good. I had a music video blog YEARS ago, A. and I shared one, we each wrote one review (mine was for a Theory of a Dead Man video, and I believe hers was for a Blur video...?) and then it died... but that was before Blogger, WordPress, and all these other great tools. You know, really, I've been blogging since the 90's... I made my first "personal web log" on Geocities back in 1998. 11 years of blogging, yo. Right here. It's amazing to see how far the internet has progressed in that time. It used to be, to even WRITE a page, you had to know HTML coding. How many bloggers these days even have to bother with the tags, hmmm? How many bloggers know the difference between
and

? I took a web design class last year, and the prof. didn't teach that in class. I felt so old. But then again, everything about university makes me feel old. I'm 10 years older than the average 1st-year student. I'm 11 years out of high school. Blah.
does anyone even use ICQ anymore? H. and I used it for a while, when we were on our "secret conversation" kick... we'd chat in MSN, and tell each other secrets in ICQ at the same time :) Very cute :) We're not that cute anymore. Tonight we forgot to make dinner, and ate chocolate almonds while watching hockey. I drank red wine and cut video...
If you could work for anyone, who would it be and why? I think I'd want to work for Tim Burton... I have no idea what he's like to work with, but his films are incredible, and I would love to say I helped create one of those visions, you know? It would be an amazing learning experience...

Google yourself.

2009-10-17T01:19:00.000-07:00

i know, I'm lame, i don't write anymore. I will soon, promise. a real post. this one doesn't count, because I'm a bit drunk. I just had some thoughts I wanted to jot down while they're swimming around in my head:

1) I've noticed a lot of blog commenters using the word "trust" lately, like in late 80's rap songs, like "I'm gonna bake cupcakes tomorrow. Trust." Is this a new fad or an old fad or... where is this coming from?
2) Another one: people aren't saying "what the fuck" or even "wtf" anymore. Now it's "the fuck?"
3)...google yourself. Seriously. How depressing is it when you google yourself and someone else, with the same name, comes up first? I just googled myself and my imdb.com profile is #1 - no idea why, but hey, at least I'm at the top :) - but it's the ONLY mention of me in the search results. Strange.
Anyways, try it, let me know if you're #1. And do you share your name with any interesting people? I'm quite impressed with the selection I've found... although that's yet another reason to go by my married name... I take spots # 1,2,3,4 and 6 on Google for my married name, and there were only three people altogether, compared to an inifinite number with my maiden name :)

and so it goes

2009-10-07T08:25:00.000-07:00

have you ever had one of those hindsight moments where you realize something really compelling has happened, and you wish you could capture it again, but know that you can't? I woke up this morning and felt that exact thing.

I'm gonna go to the Y and hang out with some seniors now. Do some elliptical training, maybe even some biking. Then I'm gonna come home and go back to sleep for a while before going to class. Yep. The life of a student.

so a few weeks ago I said I had some news

2009-10-06T13:33:00.000-07:00

...and then never got around to saying what it was. It's really not that big of a deal. I'm starting a new blog, is all. Eventually. I think it'll be a music/video blog, and I think it'll be a collaborative effort (meaning I'll ask all my friends to write for it), and it will, most of all, be linked and marketed and updated on a regular basis and all those things a good professional blog should be. Not to say I'm shutting this blog down... I'll always need a place to write public journal entries. Just sayin' I'm trying to be organized, and I'm trying to write more, and I'm trying to make a name for myself.
On that note, Tribal Machine posted that video I made them a few months ago, and the response has been pretty good:
http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendId=29964127&blogId=512857256

and it sounds like I'll be making them another video. I can't say much about it, because they want the concept to remain secret. All I'll say is that it's for their new album.
What else what else... I'm in school, writing and copy editing, which will be helpful someday. I spent most of last week (and this weekend) freaking out about this paper due Monday morning. A first draft was due Monday morning. And yes, ohmygod, it was a FIRST draft. After handing it out to the entire class, I read it over, and WOW. There's a big gap between the story I want to tell and the story I told, know what I'm sayin'? But at least now I know what I need to do. There was one silver lining to that horrible horrible draft: the story is based on real events, so I thought it best to change people's names. I changed my auntie Holly's name, in the story, to Molly (not very original, I know, but none of the people reading the story will know it's a fake name anyways, so...). But I wrote the story using everyone's real names, then did Find / Replace at 10pm Sunday night, when I was dead tired. These are all details you need to understand the humor of this little story. The last thing you need to know is my description of a character, a guy, whose real name I won't reveal here, but whose name in the story is "Dylan". Here, a bulleted list to help you keep the details straight:

Holly's name changed to Molly
find / replace
late Sunday night, very tired
Guy who we'll call "Dylan"

with me so far? Okay. Here's the punchline. Dylan, in the pre-find/replace version, is wearing Buddy Holly glasses. In the version I turned in, he's wearing Buddy MOLLY glasses. harhar.
Also, spellcheck changed "Earl Grey tea" to "Early Gray tea". Which one sounds tastier to you? I can't decide :)

The other thing that happened yesterday... well, before I write it, I'll warn you that it involves World of Warcraft. And feminism.
I started an all-female guild. Oh yes I did. I can't take all the credit, the idea was actually Amber's. But I'd been wanting to start my own guild for a while, and was having trouble coming up with a name. Then Amber posted something about the Asgarda to her FB page, and commented that someone should make a female-only guild called the Asgarda, and... that was all I needed. I'm curious to see how the WoW community - which is mostly teenage boys - will respond to an all-female combat guild. Only time will tell, I guess. And if nothing else, I might get an interesting story out of it :)

And one more thing: I saw Whip It this weekend. Good movie, not mind-blowingly amazing or anything, but good. Strong female characters. And even the antagonists are good people, you know? Everyone, even the villains, are redeemed at the end. Oh, except the "boyfriend", but he's a douche :)
And one more thing: I'm writing an article about roller derby, which is why I was first in line to see the movie. As part of my research I've made a derby name for myself. That name, which I expect you all to use, is (dum da da DAAAAAH):
Dixie Riot
Please refer to me thusly. Such as.

Happy Hump Day!

2009-09-30T16:46:00.000-07:00

It's Tuesday. Time To Party!

2009-09-29T17:50:00.000-07:00

Me. This Morning.

2009-09-22T10:06:00.001-07:00

Big announcement coming soon. Or... well... in a few weeks :)

In the meantime, here's a photoblog post of me trying to wake up this morning. I swear, if H. would've let me sleep for those extra 10 minutes, the day would've been so much better!

Today I'm working on a project for a local non-profit, then later tonight I'm going to make flash cards to study for Thursday's copy editing quiz. It feels like I have so much to do, and not enough time to do it!

Anyways... here I am, this morning, trying to wake up.

New Rammstein Video: Porn-tastic or CGI'ed?

2009-09-17T12:03:00.000-07:00

Here's the new Rammstein video. Be warned, it's definitely not suitable for work.

H. woke me up this morning to explain the video to me. He said:

"they're, like, actually naked, and fucking these porn stars, and at the end they all come, and stuff shoots out, and..."

Granted, I was still asleep when he was telling me this, and shrugged it off. But when I got up, he'd left it open for me on the computer (thanks hun). So of course I watched it. And... wow. Okay. I can see the point making a video like this, especially if you're a metal band, because the target audience is teenage (and formerly teenage) boys. I've got no problems with that (well no, I DO, but I'll save those for another time). The issue for me is whether or not the band is actually having sex with these women, actually showing their dicks on camera. Because if they are, well, that's kinda gross. I can't believe that the band would be comfortable enough to actually have sex in a music video (how many people are? Oh, except this guy, I guess...), but more than that, I can't believe they think people want to WATCH that. Didn't we learn anything from the Gene Simmons sex tape, people?
So I'm of the belief they used prop dicks (and a couple of stunt men). And this is why:

The dicks look kinda... silicone-y.
The dicks were all proportioned. Come on people, we know that doesn't happen in real life.
None of them are wearing condoms. Irresponsible!

But what do you think? Is it real or fake?

This is the way fan videos should be done

2009-09-16T12:50:00.000-07:00

Here's the video:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/mishmashed/animated-fan-video-two-weeks-by-grizzly-bear-pku

And here's what the filmmaker, Gabe Askew, had to say about it: (from VRay):

"...over the years the industry in America, especially lately, has largely succumbed to impossibly small budgets that simply don't allow for work that one can be proud of (....) This has really drained me creatively and so early in this year I told myself, I have got to do something that is purely my own and is up to my standards. I chose the song "Two Weeks" by my favorite band Grizzly Bear because it inspired me."

I totally agree. In the beginning, music videos were an art form. They were beautiful and innovative and exciting. Now, it feels like music videos are nothing but extended commercials. And some songs (I'm not pointing any fingers here...) are not much more than commercials either. So when a song inspires an artist to create something beautiful, it's a moment to remember.

This guy deserves all the kudos we can give him. He did a fantastic job.... and he did it because, as an artist, he felt like he HAD to. This video is an inspiration.

Weddings, weddings, and more weddings

2009-09-15T23:35:00.000-07:00

...actually, there's only one wedding, but it feels like three :)
So I'm not the type to apologize for a long absence (just ask my family - I don't talk to anyone on a regular basis), but I feel like you're owed an explanation. I've been away, but I'm working on stuff. Here's a list of what I'm doing, so you don't feel like I'm snubbing you:

Like I say, people are getting married on Saturday. I made one of those "baby picture" videos for the bride and groom, I'm giving a speech, and.. on top of all that... I made a dress. I MADE A DRESS. It kind of looks like this one, although not exactly,
School started last week, so I'm back wandering the grey, badly-painted halls of academia. I'm taking copy editing (to get over my fear of "grammar"), non fiction workshop (to make my writing more "transcendent"), and something called "Overcoming the Past in German Film". Don't know if I'll be staying in the last one.
I'm working with a local non-profit group. I'm doing a research project on blogging and social marketing. It's very interesting... but takes a lot of time.

Soon, my pretties, I'll be back to my blogging self. And soon, hopefully, I'll have a(nother) new blog up and ready for your comments. I'm thinking something... musical. But that's all I'm gonna say right now.

...except that moths are awesome. Soon I'm going to write a big post about moths.

I've been gone a while

2009-09-04T11:10:00.000-07:00

...we had guests from Sweden! H's uncle and uncle's common-law wife. In Sweden, a common-law spouse is called a Sambo. Just for the record.
So we were quite busy entertaining and being touristy, driving cars and eating restaurant food and walking. Walking till our feet bled. I didn't really have time to write.
No, that's a lie. I had time. I was just too tired.
And now, NOW I'm working on a wedding video for my friends, who are getting married in less than 3 weeks. AND I start a new project on Tuesday. AND I start school on Wednesday. AND I'm still looking for a job. There, okay, you're caught up on my life now :)

Here are some pics from Uncle and uncle's girlfriend's visit:

This is I. (uncle's sambo) on their second night in Victoria. She's tired, and probably sad that the restaurant we're at only serves burgers. At least they had a veggie burger, right? And we don't go there for the food, we go for the view!

This is uncle B. We had this joke about how, in every picture, we should do the "two thumbs up." I saw this little Asian tourist girl doing it at the museum, and I thought it was cool :) This is the only photo of B. actually doing the "two thumbs up", though. He's at the last Victoria Seals (baseball) game of the season, and those sunglasses he's wearing? Free with admission. Oh yeah.

This here? The best advice ever given by a sign at a tourist attraction. I WILL stay on path, sign. Thank you.

These are just some pretty flowers.

This one is awesome: B. trying to take a picture of I., who's sitting inside a totem pole, while (out of frame) this little boy watches and laughs. See, B. and I. borrowed a digital camera for the trip, and the camera's directions were in English, and they were confused. At one point, they accidentally switched the camera to "video" mode, and took a bunch of 3 second videos, thinking they were pictures :) Good times :)

...and that's about it :) It was a good visit! It was nice spending time with H's family, because I don't know them very well, and I want to :) They're all such nice people, just like H. I don't know what made Swedes so nice, but I hope it rubs off on me :)

To: A. Subject: WoW Hunters

2009-09-04T11:06:00.000-07:00

oh, I see H. sent you a message from my FB account :)

Here's how you can tell a message is from H. and not me:

1) It contains good and useful information about WoW. He's good for that. Me? Not so much. I do a quest and forget about it. I can't even remember what weapon I have equipped.

2) He never actually finishes a sentence... instead he puts three periods and starts a new one... like this... when we were getting to know each other I thought it was romantic... a sign of a wistful mind or something... maybe it still is, I'm not quite sure...

3) there's no cute little anecdotes about myself or someone else (see above)

4) He doesn't write something then delete because it sounds wrong. He doesn't have to. Everything he writes is pure and good. I can count on one hand the number of times he's accidentally offended me - the last time being last night, when he referred to a happy rotund person on TV as a "Jolly Giant."

5) Unless he was upset about something, he'd never write a message this long. He's a guy, after all.

New video!

2009-08-12T17:07:00.000-07:00

This is the Skuld video I mentioned a few weeks ago. It's finally done! Enjoy!

2009-08-11T10:36:00.001-07:00

More thoughts about food:

When I came back from my first visit to Europe (September 2001, and yes, I was caught in the Sept 11th airport messiness), I decided I wanted to "eat like a European". To me, this meant pasta with tomato sauce (which I made every day from scratch: some onion, some garlic, a bit of green pepper, one diced tomato), expensive coffee, and croissants. This is what I ate every day. It's ALL I ate every day, because I couldn't afford to buy anything else. But it's also... well, it's all I wanted, because it reminded me of being in Europe. I felt, back then, like I was meant to be in Europe.
When M (my ex) and I were in the long, drawn-out, 2-month process of breaking up, I developed a fondness for green tea Frappuccinos. I drank them 2 or 3 times a week, until one day T. was rushed to the hospital to get her appendix removed. Earlier in the day, she'd enjoyed a green tea Frappuccino with me, and while there's no proof that's what messed her up, I haven't been able to drink one since.

What's the best meal you've ever had? I can't decide. Right at this moment, I'd have to say it was whatever H. cooked on Valentine's Day :)

I'm too sore to go to the gym today (but I worked my ass off yesterday, let me tells ya) so I think I'm going into video mode for the day. wish me luck.

2009-08-10T14:57:00.001-07:00

Today I am making applesauce. Tons and tons of applesauce. The whole apartment smells like warm apples, like childhood. Even though it's grey and rainy outside, in here it's a domestic dream, all rocking chairs and Sunday dinners.

Yesterday D. and I drove around the city, collecting fruits from the homes of her friends' parents. We got blackberries, yellow plums, (passed on the red plums, but might go back), and tons of apples. It took me all night, plus a bit of this morning, just to peel and core them all. Now I'm making, like I said before, applesauce.

There's something really rewarding about domesticity, I have to say. I hated all things domestic when I was a teenager, choosing instead to cook everything I could in the microwave. I was especially fond of those stuffed chicken breasts from Costco, Kraft Dinner, and ice cream. Only when I was trying to impress someone - dinner parties, Christmas gifts - did I lower myself to cook. I think even then I knew the power of cooking "with love", but was scared to use it.

So maybe you can see where I'm going with this, I don't know.

H's grandpa died on Saturday, and it's thrown him for a bit of a loop. I don't want to broadcast too much about his feelings here on the internet - it's not my place to do so - but it should be said that he's pretty distraught. First, because his grandpa just died. Second, because he can't be in Sweden with his family. It's an ongoing conflict. He loves his family so much, and he hates being away from them at the best of times... anyways.

I have this problem. I always want to fix things. Anyone close to me knows this; sometimes I stick my nose where it doesn't belong, get in people's business, and try to "fix" things that can't be fixed. I... just... I don't know what to say when people are upset, you know? My mother... I don't want to talk about her too much either, but let's just say the things she would say about herself. She can't handle conflict. She can't handle strong emotions. She runs from other people's sadness, depression, etc. She's never exactly been the type to offer a "shoulder to cry on". I realized this pretty early on, and vowed to be the opposite: the one with the open door and the coffee brewing, the sympathetic eyes, the right words for every situation. But as much as I want to be that person, I just... don't know how to do it. Life isn't a movie, and I don't know the magic words to make people feel better.

So I cook.

Today I'm making applesauce. Last night I made pork roast, baby potatoes, blackberry jam. The night before, we grilled steaks. If H asked me to bake him a chocolate torte right now, I'd do it. Food has power, you know?

That's what I want this post to be about - the power of food in difficult situations. I'm not up to writing "grammatically", with "proper sentences" and whatnot... today I just want to get my ideas on the page. So apologies for any poor grammar or word choice. Here are some memories I relate to food:

My mother loves curry, but her husband doesn't really like Indian food. So the first time he left her for another woman, and my mom was so distraught, the only thing I could think to do was make curried chicken. I'd never made curry before in my life, and I found a recipe in this horrible 60's cookbook (there was a jello salad on the front cover). I spent hours on the chicken, but I was young, and didn't know to taste the food while preparing it. It turned out really bland. But the thought was there.
The night before I moved to Alberta, A. came over and we drank warm milk with honey. We had an excellent chat, and really connected as people. She and I have been really close ever since.
When my cousin died a few years ago, the whole family was devastated. Most of them weren't eating, either. So I made a giant lasagne, knowing that no-one would be able to turn it down, and they didn't :) It was gone in minutes :)
...and today I make applesauce, because H. loves apples, and the scent of warm apples will (hopefully) take some of his pain away.

Have any food stories to share? Post them in the comments.

The Girlfriend's Guide To Heavy Metal

2009-08-07T10:22:00.001-07:00

Okay, so, I was at a show last night... a DEATH METAL show... yes, it's true. One of H's friends is in a death metal band called Discerp, and even though I don't like death metal that much, I have to say they kicked ass. The way I judge things like this is if I see pictures when I hear the music, like if I can picture snippets of a music video, and I could definitely do that with Discerp. Gentlemen, if ever you're looking for a music video director, you know where to find me. Here's a sample of my work:

But here's the point, so I can finish this ramble and get to the good stuff. Sitting with us were A and J (is it J or G?). H works with A, and she and I have become Facebook friends :) Anyways, last night was her first death metal show, and her Facebook status was:

DEATH METAL!!11! I am scared.

I can relate, A. I can relate.

Before the show started, we were talking, and I mentioned to A that I'd written an article called The Girlfriend's Guide To Heavy Metal. She was really interested to read it, and I said I'd post it here (I said that a month ago, didn't I? tsk tsk). I talked myself out of posting it because, you know, it's not "transcendent". I also don't think it's completely finished - there are a lot more things I can do, like interview female metal heads, musicians, etc - but for now I'm going to post it, and call it "Draft 3", because I think people want to read it. Kay? Kay.

The rest of my day is going to be spent finishing H's music video. If it's done today, I'll post it here later.

Here's the article. Please remember it's a draft! And.... enjoy.

The guy in front of me is sweating like a pig, and a minute ago he smacked me in the face with his wet, stringy hair. Some of it got in my mouth, and even though it didn’t taste like anything, I want to brush my teeth. Or gargle. Or something. I can still feel the texture of that sweat-soaked mane on my lips, like the trail a slug leaves in the dirt, and it makes me want to retch.

The guy’s being a real ass, trying to climb on the backs of the guys in front of him, reaching out his arms to the stage. In his desperation, he elbows the dude next to him in the face. I’ve tried to back away, but I’m scared to move too much – the guy behind me is seven feet tall, and he’s bald, and he has a neck tattoo.

I want to go home. My feet hurt, my makeup’s running, and the smell in the middle of the mosh pit is unbearable. If I fell down right now, I’m sure I’d be trampled by a stampede of combat boots. I can’t understand a word the band is saying – possibly something about torture? Kittens? Norse mythology? It’s hard to tell when they growl so much. This is, undoubtedly, one of the worst moments of my life. I’m a girl! What the hell am I doing here?

I scan the crowd, looking for my husband, Henrik, and find him at the foot of the stage. He’s entranced by the music, roaring along with the lyrics, banging his head to the music with everyone else. It’s as though the rest of the world has disappeared. And even though he’s scowling, and kinda looks like a demon, his eyes are sparkling.

That’s why I’m here.

I just wish I could enjoy it.

Here’s my story in a nutshell: I married a Swede. You know how they say Scandinavians make the best husbands? I’d have to agree with that, but I’d also add this: Scandinavians rock out harder than anyone else. I mean, they come from the land of Vikings, you know? Death metal is played on Top 40 radio in Scandinavia. I love my husband very much – he’s kind and sweet and affectionate, and sometimes he does the dishes. But he also loves to growl, and head bang, and paint his face to look like Skeletor. He listens to music by people who burn down churches. He scours youtube for the bloodiest, most violent music videos he can find.

I’ll admit that in the beginning, I didn’t like heavy metal. I associated it with high school, big trucks, frizzy hair, bad horror movies, and misogyny. I didn’t know my loving husband was a hard-core metal fan, and by the time I figured it out, I was already smitten. So, dear readers, I’m learning to love the metal. It’s an ongoing process, but I have learned a few things along the way. Girls, if you suspect your man is into metal and you don’t know what to do, read on.

Why Metal?

I judge good music according to three factors. 1) Does it have good lyrics? 2) Can you dance to it? and 3) Does it create an emotional response?

Here’s how I judge the typical metal song:

I can’t understand the lyrics, dude is growling so much. I have no idea what he’s saying.
Sometimes, for a few seconds. But the tempo shifts so much in the average metal song, it’s almost impossible to move through a whole song.
Yes. Definitely. It makes me want to hide in the corner, cover my ears, and cry.

So I’m not the best person to explain the value of heavy metal. Instead, I asked my husband why he finds metal so appealing.

“It’s the lyrics, the imagery, the place that metal takes me to, the way they write songs, the way they use the instruments....”

What place does it take you to?

“It changes, but it’s that mythical... it’s like when you read a book, you go into that world, and you try to be in that world. It’s the atmosphere of it all.”

In other words, metal is fantasy. It’s escape.

Bruce Dickinson is the lead singer of the grandfather of all metal bands, Iron Maiden. In an interview for the documentary Metal: A Headbanger’s Journey, he says metal is a summation of all the things he enjoyed when he was a 15 year old kid:

“If you ever lose that 15 year old kid inside you, it won’t make sense at all.”

Everything in metal is heightened; the volume, the emotion, the imagery. Everything is taken to the extreme, because that’s what the 15 year old kid inside wants to hear. Metal is about fantasy, and about anger, but above all it’s about holding onto that exuberance and raw emotional power teenagers feel. I'm not saying metal is immature, mind you. I'm saying it's bigger.

The Test

First things first: you need to find out if your man is, in fact, a metal head. Sometimes the signs will be right in front of you. Does your man:

Wear combat boots to the bar?
Break into air guitar when he likes a song?
Have a poster of Black Sabbath, Alice Cooper, or Iron Maiden on his wall?
Have a closet full of band t-shirts, most of them black, featuring pentagrams, skeletons, demons and/or blood spatter?

Then he’s probably a metal head. If you’re still not sure, here is a sure-fire way to find out. The next time you’re both in the same room, I want you to clear your voice, then say the following:

“You know, Metallica is great and all that, but I think their new stuff is WAY better than their old stuff.”

If he gets angry and leaves the room, or if he breaks something, he’s a metal head.

See, “old” Metallica are the kings of American thrash metal. Even today, they’re considered some of the most technically skilled musicians in the world. But in the mid-to-late 90’s, they decided they didn’t want to be Thrash anymore. They released an album called Load (if I wasn’t so classy, I’d say there’s a joke to be made here) which was basically a “rock” album. They cut their famously long hair, wore makeup in their videos, and sang about… their “feelings”.

Then they launched an attack on Napster and other file-sharing programs. In other words, they sold out thousands fans because they (the richest metal band in the world) were upset about royalties. Singing about your (non-murderous) feelings? Not metal. Caring about money? REALLY not metal. This is why old Metallica (anything earlier than 1992) is good, while new Metallica (anything after 1994) is bad.

The Education

So now you have definite proof your man is a metal head. Roll up your sleeves, ladies, because it’s time to get dirty. Here is a list of resources to help educate you in the ways of metal:

1. Video Games
The Guitar Hero and Rock Band games feature many heavy metal bands, from Kiss to Slipknot. The games give you a chance to not only familiarize yourself with some of the biggest metal songs, but also to play them yourself. After you’ve tried a couple guitar solos, you’re sure to appreciate the technical skill that goes into a metal song. And, you know, video games are fun.

2. Movies
If you seriously want to learn about metal, including history, styles, and controversies, I highly recommend the film Metal: A Headbanger’s Journey. This documentary follows Sam Dunn, a Canadian anthropologist and self-proclaimed metal head, as he tours around Europe and North America visiting festivals and interviewing his favorite bands. The film is a good, comprehensive overview of the metal scene. But more than that, it makes metal exciting for everyone, not just hard-core fans.

If you’re not the “documentary type”, then try one of the following: This Is Spinal Tap, Fubar, Anvil! or Wayne’s World.

3. Magazines
Every music genre has its own magazines, but metal probably has more than any other. There are magazines for different genres, different instruments, different languages. Some of the best metal magazines for the uninitiated include Revolver, Metal Hammer, and Kerrang. I personally like Metal Hammer because it’s well-written, and it’s not afraid to make fun of itself.

The Music

In Metal: A Headbanger’s Journey, Sam Dunn breaks down the different types of metal into a family tree of sorts. Here’s a condensed version to help guide you through the many different genres of metal:

Early Metal / Original Hard Rock / Shock Rock
How you’ll recognize it: you probably already do, because this is what they call “classic rock” nowadays.
Bands: Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Aerosmith, KISS

New Wave of British Heavy Metal
How you’ll recognize it: you’ve probably played it in Guitar Hero.
Bands: Motörhead, Iron Maiden, Dio

Progressive Metal
How you’ll recognize it: intense psychedelic dreamscapes, impossible solos, and songs about robots.
Bands: Rush, Queensrÿche, Dream Theater

Glam/Hair Metal
How you’ll recognize it: you heard it that time you went to the strip club.
Bands: Mötley Crüe, Twisted Sister, Poison, Warrant

Pop Metal
How you’ll recognize it: your older sister used to listen to it in the 80’s.
Bands: Van Halen, Def Leppard, Guns N’ Roses

Thrash Metal
How you’ll recognize it: it’s what the majority of non metal fans refer to as “heavy metal.”
Bands: Metallica, Slayer, Anthrax, Megadeth, Pantera,

Black Metal
How you’ll recognize it: corpse paint, screaming, and swords.
Bands: Bathory, Satyricon, Dimmu Borgir

Death Metal
How you’ll recognize it: growling so intense you won’t understand the lyrics.
Bands: Cannibal Corpse, Entombed, Dismember

Goth Metal
How you’ll recognize it: the lead singer wants to suck your blood.
Bands: Type O Negative, My Dying Bride, Him

Industrial Metal
How you’ll recognize it: you listened to it in high school.
Bands: Ministry, White Zombie, Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson

New Wave of American Metal
How you’ll recognize it: this is what your teenage brother listens to.
Bands: Lamb of God, Killswitch Engage, Slipknot

Okay. You’re educated, you’ve listened to the music, and you’re still here. What’s the next step? It’s time to start preparing for a live show.

The Costume

The metal costume is centered around one very important piece of clothing: the t-shirt. T-shirts will usually be black, feature a band logo, and have a picture involving a pentagram, blood spatter, or a skeleton (if it has all three, it’s probably a Slayer shirt). The general rule of thumb when choosing a shirt is that the more obscure the band, the cooler the shirt. If you had to mail order the shirt from the frozen tundra of Norway, and it has strange lettering (umlauts are a definite plus), and it ALSO has a really violent picture on it (see above), you’ll be the coolest person in the room. If the band broke up before getting famous, or if the t-shirt is for an obscure high school band of a famous person, you earn extra metal points.

The next most important item of clothing for a metal show: footwear. If you plan on being anywhere near the stage, do not, repeat DO NOT wear any of the following kinds of shoes:

pumps
stilettos
wedges
sandals
anything open-toed
anything too expensive to replace

THEY WILL BE DESTROYED. Proper footwear for a girl at a metal show: big black boots (combat boots keep your feet safe AND make you look tough) or simple sneakers.

The most important thing to remember when you’re dressing for a metal show is that inevitably, you are going to get dirty. The floors are sticky with beer, the guys are flinging sweat everywhere, and in the rare case a fight breaks out, there might even be some blood. The best bet is to dress like a guy: jeans, tshirt, boots. Wear clothes that can be easily thrown in the washing machine.

If you’re committed to looking feminine, though, you do have a few options. You can go rockabilly, with a frilly halter dress and big red lips. This will make you stand out in the crowd, but not in a bad way. The problem is that something will most likely get spilled on your dress, and you can’t really mosh in a halter and Mary Janes. Not without a lot of practice, and possibly double-sided tape.

You can also go Goth, which a lot of girls at metal shows do: black lipstick, dog collar, PVC. But be warned that you will get VERY hot, your makeup will smudge, and at the end of the night you’ll probably have a rip in your expensive satin corset. Best to stick with cotton, leather, and the occasional metal spike.

The Live Show

So the guy jumps up on stage and rips the microphone out of the singer’s hand.

“Who stole my hat???” he screams, and the crowd collectively yells at him to get off the stage.

“I want my *&^$# hat!” He screams again, then jumps head-first off the stage and punches a random guy in the face. The band stops playing, waiting for the commotion to die down.

I finally maneuver my way out of the mosh pit, find an empty seat, and put my feet up. I wish I’d brought ear plugs. My brain hurts from all the noise.

People go to a metal show to have fun, drink some beer, and let off some steam. Sometimes this means people get a bit out of control, like the guy who jumped up on stage. But for the most part, just like any other social gathering, people go to metal shows to hear the music and have a good time.

For someone like me, who prefers Morrissey to Metallica, the key to a good metal show is to always be prepared. Make sure you have earplugs. And cash, to buy drinks. Get to the show early so you can find a place to sit, and did I mention earplugs?

At the end of the band’s set, I push my way through the crowd to stand with my husband. His face is red, his hair soaked with sweat, but he’s happy like a little kid. And that makes me happy.
I’m still not the biggest metal fan, but I’ve found a way to appreciate it. Now, when Henrik wants to crank the death metal and escape for a little while, I’m not worrying about his sanity. Heavy metal is an outlet. It helps people release aggression. We all need some form of outlet, don’t we? I write, Henrik listens to Dimmu Borgir, and we get along just fine.

2009-08-06T11:04:00.001-07:00

I have realized something very important today.

See, one of my classmates (someone I'll admit I don't know very well, someone I had a class with, like, 2 years ago, but someone who stood out) won a prestigious writing award. On hearing the news, I went through a couple of stages. First, "oh hey! I know her!", second "Wow! Good for her!", third "she must write a lot more than I do", fourth "why the fuck is SHE so special?", and fifth "I'm a failure."

I googled her and found some of her work online. And I read it. And you know what? It's good, but it's not mind-blowing good. I was expecting transcendence, but what I got was... well, it was GOOD, and it was INTERESTING, but it wasn't anything I couldn't do. Know what I mean?

So here's what I realized. If I want to be a writer, I have to stop worrying that my work isn't good enough. I have to stop worrying that I have to change the world in 1000 words. Because that is probably never going to happen. I have to stop worrying that everyone else is a "better writer" than me, because logic dictates that "talent" is a matter of opinion, and most of the time I think I stack up alright next to my classmates. Not to brag, but I'm an A student, dont'cha know... (actually, I think everyone in the writing program gets high marks. I can't imagine anyone having lower than a B+ average, so being an A student isn't that big of a deal...)

Professors over the years have freaked me out with their little sayings:

"[writing] is organic, and should flow easily onto the page" (maybe in fiction. But what about non-fiction, where you have to tell the truth all the time?)
"if you haven't published by third year, you might as well give up" (then what about all the teachers out there?)
"the best writing will come to you as if in a dream" (well, that's hardly ever happened to me - does it mean I'm not a good writer?)
"if you're a good writer, the world will recognize it." (What about Emily Dickinson?)
"the story is in the details" - this one I agree with, actually.

The profs are trying to be helpful, of course, but... I don't know. Sometimes, usually when I have a few weeks off between classes, I feel like I'm in way over my head. How the hell am I ever going to match up to these people, you know? This one writes a column for the newspaper; this one interns at a famous magazine; this one has a book deal; this one wins every award they apply for. I, on the other hand, don't have a piece I even find WORTHY of submitting for an award. Not right now.

Because I have this thing stuck in my head that writing should always be transcendent. That's my word of the day, btw. I think "if it didn't make me cry to write it, it's not good enough." Then when I have an assignment for class, I won't write about things that make me cry, because I don't want to overshare with the class. So I screw myself both ways - I'm not brave enough to be a powerful writer, and I'm not powerful enough to write good work.

It doesn't help that I've been reading Joan Didion all summer. If we want to talk about beauty and transcendence in writing, there it is. Will I ever be able to write like that? I don't know. I don't think I've lived the right kind of life to do that. I think my eyes might be slowly closing to the poetry of the world.... slowly narrowing in.... since most of my writing is about myself.

But reading my (very accomplished) classmate's work today, I realized that ALL THIS IS BULLSHIT. She's an excellent writer, and she has a definite style, but her work isn't anything I couldn't do too. I HAVE been trained well (even if this blog doesn't reflect it), and I DO have the tools to be a decent, if not beautifully poetic, writer. Maybe one day I'll find the story that elevates my writing to a new level. In the meantime, I'm perfectly capable, and have to start thinking of myself as such.

More To Love, Episode 2 - Picking Scabs

2009-08-05T11:09:00.000-07:00

Last night, H. was on the computer reading various fringe-Christian rants about Marilyn Manson and Nine Inch Nails. He does it a lot, and it kinda bugs me. Sometimes he'll put on these horrid glassy-eyed Christian TV shows where people ask for money in the name of "Jesus", and sit there with this shocked look on his face, like it's the first time he's ever heard the pitch. Or he goes to websites like the one for that "God Hates Fags" church and reads the worst parts out loud (not only does God hate "fags", apparently... he also hates Swedes, Canadians, and basically everyone else in the world). Or he watches those 9-11 Truth shows the conspiracy theorists buy airtime for on Shaw TV - apparently the oil companies were behind it? Or... it goes on and on. Anything hateful or ignorant, H. will watch or read it. And every time, he's shocked and amazed, then he's angry. I've told him time and again, just IGNORE it. Seeing it will just make you upset. But time and again he watches the shows, visits the websites... seeks out these things that upset him.

"You like to pick scabs, don't you?" I asked last night.
"Yeah, I guess I do," he answered, "but so do you."

Because, like the subject line says, last night I watched the 2nd episode of More To Love. I know I said I wouldn't, since last week's episode made me cry (and then do many km's on the exercise bike) and vow never to watch the show again. But what can I say? Like H, I'm a bit of a scab-picker.

Last night's episode was a train wreck of the highest proportion, from putting the (highly self-conscious) girls in bathing suits, to the chick vomiting off the side of the boat, to Kristian's intense eyes. Not to mention all the crying. Is this going to be a running theme? Because if so, I'm not going to... who am I kidding, I'll watch it anyways.

So here's what happened. The girls divided into two "teams" for a couple of group dates. Two girls were chosen to be team captains, and to pick the teams amongst themselves. Only one problem: there were an odd number of girls. Cut to various teary confessions of the "I was always picked last because I was fat" genre.

The girl who WAS picked last... she just kinda stood there, like... I don't know. It was really awkward. She was all alone on one side of the room, saying to the other girls, "why don't you like me? I thought you all liked me." And no-one responded. But in the end it worked out for her (I guess), because she scored a one-on-one date with Kevin Ja... I mean Luke. They went to Vegas, and stuff happened. The other girls seethed with jealousy. More on that in a bit.

First, though, was a group date, and guys? This is where I fell in love with Bonnie. I even pulled H. away from the Christian websites for a second to marvel at the coolness of this chick. She's got awesome hair, awesome makeup, awesome clothes, glowing white skin... goddam, I wish I looked like her. Add to that she's wry, funny, and a little bit bitchy, and I think I've found my new best friend. Only one problem. She's on More To Love. Bonnie, what the hell? You're so much better than this shit! And I think the producers know it too, because even though she shows NO interest in Luke, and even though her "confessionals" are mostly about herself and the other girls, they keep cutting to her. Not to mention, she's one of the only girls yet to cry.

But back to the fun. So, the first group date is on a boat. The night starts off fine, with everyone chatting and sipping martinis while the chefs prepare some kind of feast. Then Heather, the cute lip-glossed blonde with hair full of flowers and bows, started puking over the side of the boat. Poor Heather, she puked and puked, then she cried and cried, then she fell asleep. Amazingly, none of her hair bows fell overboard. But she did miss out on all the fun, especially Kristan's crazy eyes.

Okay, let's take a minute here to talk about Kristian. She's like what? 12? Has she never been around men before? What's up with her? She's like that girl in high school who stalked your guy friend, sent him flowers on Valentine's Day and waved to him in the hallways... the one who'd combine her name with theirs on her notebook, and then eventually he went out with her and you were like "what the HELL?" and you knew he was only with her because she put out right away, and you knew she only put out right away because she was desperate for a man, and in the end she got pregnant and dropped out of school, but only after your friend dumped her because everyone made fun of him for being with her in the first place? Yeah. That would've been Kristian in high school, if she'd been mature enough. Desperation and self-deception are oozing from her pores. She actually said, last night, that she thinks she's in love with Luke. HOW? You've known him for, like, a week, and you've spent a grand total of 10 minutes alone with him! In fact, you've NEVER been alone with him because the cameras are always on! In the immortal words of Lloyd Dobler, "YOU MUST CHILL!"

The rest of the boat date was pretty tame. The only part worth mentioning, I guess, was the makeout session between Luke and Malissa, and later her confessional that "these other girls don't stand a chance." I like your confidence, Malissa, and I hope for your sake you're right. She really does seem to be the most compatible with Luke... but then again, we haven't learned all that much ABOUT Luke yet, have we?

I'll give him props for one thing, though: when Heather started puking over the side of the boat, he contemplated helping her, then decided against it. "The last thing she wants to see right now is me," he said. That, Luke, was a very thoughtful and astute observation. The last thing a girl wants when she's puking over the side of a boat is an attractive (to her) man, and a camera crew, watching her every move. 1 point for Luke.

Cut to date #2, the one-on-one Vegas night. I'll admit I wasn't watching this part too closely, because the winner (or loser) of the one-on-one date, Christina, annoyed me as much as she annoyed the girls in the house, and I'd assume it's for the same reasons. Christina is an airhead. She doesn't seem to know how to do anything except style her hair! And the dress she wore on the Vegas date? I'm pretty sure it was a skirt that she just pulled up around her chest to turn it into a minidress. Admit it, you've done that before. But have you done it on TV? Not that Luke seemed to notice - he was too entranced by her "bangin'" (his actual words: "her body is bangin'!") body to focus on fashion, or conversation, or Vegas. Luke, I'm revoking your 1 point, for use of the word bangin'.

Back at the house, Kristian was in a bug-eyed rage, saying Malissa shouldn't even be on the show because she's not, you know, "original" fat. I paraphrase:

"she didn't get fat until after high school, she doesn't know what it's like to not have a date to prom because of your size, she doesn't know what it's like to be discriminated against."

Kristian, hun? Pop your eyes back in, and sit next to me on the couch.

No matter how old you are, fat women are ALWAYS discriminated against. It doesn't matter when, or how, or WHY someone gained the weight. People always look at fat women, regardless of their age, in the same way. They don't think "oh, I bet she used to be thin in high school." They think "damn she's fat." I was thin in high school too. Doesn't mean I had tonnes of boyfriends, or got picked first for teams. I was lonely and angry and misunderstood. Everyone is. Maybe you're too young to realize that, but... you need to. Because your anger isn't doing anyone any good, least of all yourself.

Vegas date was a bit of a snooze, so instead I let H. read me some Christian rumors about the Satanic Marilyn Manson. Did you know he had some ribs removed so he could perform fellatio on himself?

The third date was the funnest of the bunch: a pool party at Luke's house. The girls freaked out about wearing bathing suits (cue the teary-eyed "I never go to the beach because I'm fat" confessionals), but only one of them had visible cellulite, which I thought was kind of amazing. They had some seriously cute swimwear, I have to say. Where do these people shop? Because I've been looking for one of those 50's-style "bathing beauty" suits for a while now...

Luke, knowing the girls would be self-conscious in their bathing suits, set about making drinks straight away. The girls got a bit tipsy, a bit comfortable. The one who got the MOST comfortable, though, was Lauren. I think it was Lauren. I can't really remember. Anyways, one of them was having so much fun she drank her martini in the pool, then said Luke was "the best floatie" she'd ever had. He did the one-on-one talking thing with each girl, mostly just trying to make out as much as he could. Nothing too interesting there.

The best part: once again, Kristian. And Bonnie. I don't know why they were there, since they'd already had their date, but they were fully clothed, so... I don't know. I was still thinking of missing ribs and puppies thrown into mosh pits. Anyways, Kristian said "I wanna see what his house looks like!" and the other girls were like "oooh!" and Bonnie, I love Bonnie, she said (with the wry wit):
"You should totally leave him a creepy 'I Was In Your House' note."
and the girls were like "no..."
and Bonnie was like "Kristian, you should totally do it." Because Kristian is young and naive and doesn't know the rules of the game, or how to distinguish sarcasm from normal conversation.
So Kristian snuck into the house, and (we can assume) looked around, and left Luke a creepy "I Was In Your House" note. Yes, she really did. Best of all, though? She wasn't the only one.

Then we come to what they called the "Mixer" and the "Elimination." "Mixer" apparently means champagne, formal wear, and skewers of meat. They eat so much meat on this show! "Elimination" is exactly what it sounds like. As the "Mixer" wore on, Luke took each girl away to, ummm, plead their case as to why they should stay in the house. Most of them were the usual "I think we have a shot at love" kind of conversations, but a few really stood out:

Lauren: do you want the dirt on anyone? Because I can totally give you the scoop. Luke: no, not really, I'm trying to find out if you like me or not. Lauren: okay, well, if you want the dirt, just let me know.
Bonnie: I know I look a bit intimidating, with the tattoos and all, but on the inside I'm a 50's housewife. Luke (VO): Bonnie makes me change my thinking about things every time I talk to her. (Translation: I don't know what to think of her, and because of that, I have to keep her around.)
Kristian: I LOVE YOU!!!! (Eyes pop out of her head) Luke: Ummm, here, I think you dropped something.

Emme, plus-size supermodel and TV hostess extraordinaire, was in great form this episode. Some of her key scenes:

Emme enters the room and stands near a large glass bowl. "Ladies, it's time to return your rings." Emme exits the room.
Emme enters the room and stands near a velvet curtain. "Ladies, there is only one ring remaining." Emme exits the room.

In the end, three girls were sent home, but I can only remember one of them: Arriane, the "cabaret performer". She didn't need this show anyways. Kristian got the last ring, and looked so relieved she nearly passed out. I don't know what to think of her... she seems to crazy to be real, you know?

Will I watch this show again next week? I might, but I'm not too sure. Bonnie is awesome, but she's gotta go home soon, because this is definitely not the show for her. There's no way she can "win", and I'm sure she knew that going into it. It feels like she's using the show as a platform for something, which, you know, good for her. That's what I would do too. But she can't last, what with not being into Luke and all. So we'll see. It was a decent way to waste an hour, but still not as good as a repeat of True Blood.

I really should start reviewing that show instead.

2009-07-31T14:45:00.000-07:00

Another thing I'm totally going to do? This. When the time is right, of course.

My old journals

2009-07-31T12:30:00.000-07:00

This: http://jezebel.com/5327399/to-do-send-us-a-page-from-your-old-diaries

is something I'm totally gonna do. But not on Jezebel, no. I think I'll do it here. If I can find that one old diary with the boy in the rowboat on the cover, the one with the broken lock, the one that (still!) smells like candy. Or if I can find the journal where Holly went through and commented with things like "Curtis is so cute!" or "Danielle isn't a good friend to you, Moon-d". Those were awesome.

Also: I'm sitting here drinking black coffee and eating a pink, vegan cupcake. Went to the gym and worked out all my stress. Today is a good day.

2009-07-28T23:52:00.000-07:00

Yes! I'm done blogging about the cleanse, and can get back to my self-indulgent fantasies that people actually read this blog! :)
So the next problem in my life is this: job search. It is going terribly. I've applied to 9 jobs in 3 months - 6 of those applications were sent out last week - because I can't find any job I WANT, you know what I mean? I've been offered my old job back, if I want it, in September. But I DON'T want it. It's boring and it doesn't pay well and it's not helping me reach my career goals. I have the luxury of taking my time finding a job, thank god, so I haven't had to apply for any retail positions yet. But I'm sick of being in this apartment, in front of this computer, looking for an ad that excites me. Maybe I should be a hotel night auditor, or a part-time office administrator, or... ANYthing, just to get out of the house. Maybe I should deliver pizza or something. Because I'm going crazy in this apartment, watching the same reruns on TV, doing the same daily quests in World of Warcraft, writing the same stupid shit on this blog, having the same conversations with H. over and over again.
Today was a "crying" day, sparked by my weighing myself right after dinner (never a good idea) and the start of a new reality show called The Fatchelor. Oh, no, I'm sorry, it's called More To Love. Reviewers just like to call it that other name because, you know, everyone on the show is fat. And because they're fat, they're worthy of punchlines. Take this review from Salon:

"Fox's new reality show More to Love might as well be called The Fatchelor: It's an excruciatingly typical dating competition with the single twist that both the catch of the day and the women competing for his attention are all larger than average. With weight as the show's central focus, the editing plays to as many fat stereotypes as possible: In the first episode, which airs Tuesday night, we get women weeping about their dateless pasts, one unironic use of the phrase "big-boned," a debate on the merits of Spanx and, of course, umpteen conversations about food — one of which includes the fatchelor flirtatiously declaring, "I like anything thick and juicy." (And cheesy, apparently.) The show's marketing and promotion campaigns claim a message of empowerment, but for the larger romantics among us, More to Love does little to dispel the myth that fat people's lives are built around dessert and desperation."

Dessert and desperation? Really? Because I'm fat, and I hardly ever eat dessert. And I'm definitely not desperate.
In fact, getting married is what made me fat in the first place yo. I was a nice, healthy weight (as I've said before) until H. and his sweet tooth moved in. Except that according to the rules of this TV show, my healthy weight (a weight which didn't seem to turn ANY guys off, let me assure you) is still considered "fat".
This, dear readers, is why I stopped watching More To Love. I'd intended to watch the whole thing, write it up for you (since I'm sure none of my readers are "fat", and therefore didn't watch it... because, you know, the only people who'd watch a fat dating show are fat people. And those who make fun of fat people.), and offer some "I've been there" insight. But I had to turn it off, because the... ugggh... the idea that a woman who weighs 170lbs, 5lbs over a "normal" BMI, is obese... no. I'm sorry, readers, it bugged me. And why are all the women on the show at least 50lbs less than the man? And WHY, WHY, WHY did they have to POST THE WOMEN'S WEIGHTS next to their names?
Why does their weight matter? It's not a weight-loss show, it's a dating show. They're not being judged on how much they lose, they're being judged on their ability to "find true love". Does their weight come into the "true love" equation at all? I mean, I'm done with this stuff... I've found my guy, I'm happily married, and truth be told I haven't been single since I was 19. I've never had to "date", really. But if this is what it's like to date, well... I guess I'd be a spinster, because I couldn't handle the constant self-hate. I have enough self-hate as it is.
I wanted to watch this show and support my big-boned sisters, you know? But I couldn't handle the way they... they seemed to ooze desperation and nervousness, as though they really thought this guy was their only shot at happiness. THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW HIM. He could be a secret date-rapist or a wife beater or a racist or a Republican. I'm not saying he IS, I'm just saying he COULD be. They don't know, and yet they're willing to humiliate themselves, globally, to win his affections. It's ridiculous.
Even more ridiculous is that this is how skinny people see us. They think we're sad and desperate and if we just lost the weight, the world would be a better place. No, no it wouldn't. Insecurity doesn't go away just because you lose some weight. Insecurity comes from a much deeper place. It comes from our perceptions of the world. It comes from knowing where we stand in a group dynamic. It comes from knowing how we're being judged. If you've been fat, you know how it feels to be judged like that. Even if you lose the weight, I'm sure that self-consciousness stays with you.
On Sunday they showed that episode of Family Guy where Lois gains a bunch of weight. Peter tells her that he's not fat, "only fat WOMEN are fat." Like most of Family Guy, it's a joke that hits a bit too close to home. They didn't post the guy's measurements every time he was on-screen, like they did to the women. Did they? Like I said, I only watched the first few minutes.
Anyways, my point is this. I'm not down with More To Love. I was hoping the show would be... well, it's too much to hope that it would be empowering, but I at least thought it would be humanizing. Instead, like always, fat people are treated like cattle.
Maybe I should start writing about True Blood? That's what we watched instead...

Cleanse Day 4 and 5: Nothing Much Changed

2009-07-28T11:00:00.001-07:00

So I have this problem with weekends. The problem is, you see, H is home, and it's his time to sit in front of the computer. So even though I'm pretty much saying this to and for myself, I'd like to apologize for getting so behind in the blogging.
But there's another reason for that. I don't have much to report.
Day 4 of the cleanse, I tried again to get some exercise. I managed to do 30 minutes on the exercise bike, but then I felt pretty weak. Nuts and grains just weren't giving me the calcium I needed, and by dinner time, the faint feeling had turned into a full-on headache. I was a real bitch by the time H. got home, I'm sorry to say. I picked on every little thing. But he's a good guy, and instead of getting mad or defensive he sat down, put his arms around me, and asked what was wrong. I said "fuck it, let's have spaghetti for dinner."
Because, as those of you who know me are aware, spaghetti makes all my problems disappear. Seriously. Pasta is my #1 comfort food.
I stuck to the cleanse as much as I could, though: the sauce was all fresh vegetables, a little bit of olive oil, no canned tomatoes. The pasta was whole wheat, and I didn't put any cheese on top. But I still broke the cleanse, and for that I felt bad.
H. came home with alcohol, too: a case of beer and a bottle of port wine. He was so excited to have port in the house, saying it's what "sophisticated people" drink after dinner. Needless to say, I'd never tried it. And I'm proud to say I didn't try it that night, either. I could give myself a break on the whole wheat pasta, but if I'd had some alcohol I'd have to declare defeat.
The next day, day 5, I pretty much gave up. Things don't "keep" very well in our fridge, so if we want fresh things, we have to buy them right away. I was so sick of going to the grocery store. I think, in the 5 days of the cleanse, we'd spent almost $100 on fruits and vegetables!
So like I said, I gave up. For breakfast I had a bowl of Frosted Flakes and a cup of coffee. Oh coffee, I'd missed you so much! The sweet, full, nutty flavour! The scent, so inviting, like meeting a long-lost friend on the street, and they give you a big hug and tell you you look great....

So, after (close to) 5 days of cleansing, what have I observed?

After not having sugar for a few days, a bowl of cereal hit me like a ton of bricks. I was a little kid again, running and jumping and singing.... impossible to calm down until I crashed on the couch and fell asleep.
I have dry skin, and before the cleanse, the skin on my palms was peeling. After the cleanse, all my dead skin is gone.
I also have dark circles under my eyes, and after the cleanse, they're pretty much gone too.
The last time I saw my mom, which was a few days before the cleanse, she said I looked a bit "puffy", like I was retaining water. After the cleanse, I can see what she meant. My face and body, even though I didn't lose much weight, feel thinner. Flatter, maybe.
I really like dairy, but I don't need it to survive. Cheese should not be my go-to food.
But was any of this because of my diet, or because I was drinking so much water? I'm inclined to believe it was the water.

I'm not necessarily a "strong" person, but I couldn't stand feeling as weak as I did. So I think in the future, instead of dieting, I'm going to incorporate more fresh fruit and vegetables into my diet. I'm also going to make sure I stay hydrated, and make more of an effort to cook fresh foods for H. and myself. Tonight I'm making a big batch of pasta sauce. Last night we had salmon, corn on the cob, and fresh carrots. H. has commented that he really enjoys the "home-cooked meals", and I do too. It's not as hard to cook fresh, healthy, satisfying meals as I thought it was.
Now if only we had a dishwasher, my life would be perfect.

Cleanse: Day 3 yawn

2009-07-24T16:34:00.000-07:00

I'm tired, and really have no mental energy for this. So I'm not even going to try and string complete sentences together. Here's what happened on Day 3:
Once again, I didn't eat until 1pm. Don't know why I'm doing that, it just seems to happen. Then I made myself a big salad, with the rest of the leftover baby potatoes, some raspberries from my mom's garden, greens, walnuts, and a homemade vinagrette. Very good, although I probably should have cut the potatoes into smaller pieces.
I spent most of the day in front of the computer, writing yesterday's blog and playing WoW. I just... didn't want to do anything. After the cleaning spree of the day before, I guess I was tired. I did perk up a little after taking the multivitamin - apparently I should read labels, because the vitamin I'm taking is chock-full of green tea extract. At least I'm getting SOME caffeine, I guess.
I felt really dirty. Even after a long shower and a good scrub, I felt... I don't know. Greasy, I guess. I get the occasional zit, one here or there, you know what I mean? Yesterday I had three new ones on my chin. That's very strange. Is this the "toxins" trying to get out of my body? I don't know.
When H. got home from work, he immediately went to the cupboard above the fridge - the one where I'm hiding all the tempting foods - and took out a bag of chips. He snacked on those while I cooked dinner - a big veggie stir-fry, with tofu marinated in garlic, ginger and soy sauce. The websites said garlic and ginger are really good cleansing foods so I used lots of them... 6 or 7 cloves of garlic, and a whole ginger root (peeled, of course). I thought it was really good - at least it wasn't bland! - but H. didn't seem too fond of it.
So after dinner we went to the grocery store. I bought strawberries and grapes. H. bought chocolate, gummy bears, and cereal. He had so much trouble picking out cereal. I said to him, "you should get the cereal you loved most when you were a kid." Why did I say that? Because I knew it would be something loaded with sugar, and therefore completely off-limits to me. Not something sitting in a middle-ground, you know? And I was right. He grabbed a Family Size box of frosted flakes.
One other thing I noticed yesterday: I felt gross and oily on the outside, but my insides felt... I hate to say it, it sounds so cheesy... but my insides actually felt CLEAN. Like... kind of tingly. Like the mud that'd been caked on for years had been scraped off. I still have that feeling now.

I'm on Day 4 as I write about Day 3. Only one more day to go!

Cleanse: Day 2 >_<

2009-07-23T10:14:00.000-07:00

I woke up tired, and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. But you know how it is, once the eyes are open, it's impossible to shut them again. So I got up, poured myself a glass of water, and set to what I do every morning: scour the internet looking for a job.

I wasn't hungry, so I skipped breakfast, which now seems like a really bad idea. I didn't have anything except water and green tea until 1pm, and then I had a leftover baby potato from that wonderful salmon dinner we had on Monday. Then I had some leftover pasta sauce I'd made on Sunday - it was all-natural, no dairy or meat, so it was alright to eat. Kind of strange without the pasta, though.

Usually, I'd go to the gym. But for the cleanse I decided to stay home and, if I felt the need to exercise, use the stationary bike in the living room. I did about 15 minutes before the weakness set in and I said to myself, "I'll just go for a ride on the real bike."

I should say, before going any further, I haven't ridden my bike in a year. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, the tires were completely flat, and I think it'd gotten heavier since the last time I'd used it. Anyways, I cleaned it off and set to work pumping up the tires.

Maybe I was weak from the lack of food, or maybe I'm just generally weak, I don't know. But it took forever to pump up the tires. In fact, I don't think I pumped them up enough, but had to stop because my arms couldn't pump anymore! I thought it would be okay for the quick trip to the grocery store, though... it's only like 20 blocks round-trip.

So. I get on the bike, start riding, and everything's fine. Until I get to the first hill. I gear down, hoping a lower gear will make it easier. I start to pant. I start to sweat. I push harder. In my head, as usual when I ride this bike, I'm screaming. "JUST MAKE IT TO THE TELEPHONE POLE! THEN YOU CAN SLOW DOWN! YOU'RE ALMOST THERE! JUST A BIT FURTHER! COME ON!" I made it to the telephone pole, and all the way to the grocery store, without stopping. Good for me. But when I got off the bike my head felt like it was spinning, and there were little stars in my peripheral vision like fireflies.

When I was a teenager, I had this bad habit of passing out for no particular reason. The first time it happened was, ironically, in a grocery store parking lot. I'd broken up with my boyfriend a few days earlier, and I was depressed. Didn't want to leave the house. But my mom yelled (actually yelled, which is strange for her) at me to get off my ass and DO something, so we went to the grocery store. I told her I wasn't feeling well and wanted to stay in the car. She wasn't having any of that, so I got out of the car and... stars. The world turned blue and caved in on me. I could hear people around me, panicking, and an unrecognizable woman asking my mom, "is that Amanda?" I didn't hear my mom's answer, though. Next thing I remember, someone's lifting me into a truck and driving me the two blocks to the hospital.

At the hospital, the doctor said I fainted because of poor diet. He told me to eat a bagel and drink some orange juice, although I can't remember why. Lack of carbs or something. My mom spent the rest of the day scolding me for not eating, then apologizing for not listening when I said I didn't feel well. I ate a couple of bagels, drank some orange juice, and was fine again.

Until the next time. It was almost a year later, and I was living with my dad, working part-time at the grocery store deli. My first time away from "home". My first real job. I cut meat and cheese, made pizzas and rotisserie chickens, packaged salads, and tried to make some new friends. At the end of each day, we had to clean and sharpen the cutting machines. So what do I do? I cut myself on the newly-sharpened (and, luckily, newly-sterilized) blade. It was a deep cut; I still have a faint scar on my finger from it. So deep it didn't even hurt, and I thought I'd just put a band aid on it. So I went to the first aid kit, and the other girls (who, by the way, were just standing around letting me do all the work) asked me what was up. I told them nothing, it was all fine, I just needed a band-a...

Stars. I felt something soft, like a pool noodle or a Nerf ball, hit the back of my head (in reality, as I fell, I hit my head on the edge of a counter). Everything was blue. I woke up to a group of people, most of whom I'd never seen before, standing over me in a half-circle, their eyes full of concern and helplessness. I guess they'd never seen anyone faint at the grocery store before.

Anyways, when I came to, they asked me if I needed anything. I said bagels and orange juice. Someone rushed off and brought me a bag of bagels and a carton of orange juice, then they sent me home early. I had to walk. And it was snowing outside. The next day, there was a bill for the food I'd taken home.

My point is, when I got off the bike, I knew that feeling.

Luckily this time I didn't pass out. I took a few minutes to rest, pretending I was having trouble locking up the bike. Then I slowly made my way though the store, picking up fruit, putting it back. The stars faded, but they didn't totally go away, so I bought some Happy Planet juice. I guess I broke the cleanse diet, because you're not supposed to have anything "processed". But my thinking was "if I don't have anything, I'll pass out, and at least Happy Planet is organic..."
I don't remember paying for the groceries. I remember standing in line, I remember the cashier and the girl who helped put the food in my backpack, the annoyed glances at me from other shoppers waiting to pay for their purchases. I remember it was the first day of the Thrifty Foods "no plastic bags" rule, and the woman in front of me put her groceries in a cardboard box. I remember the cashier was wearing Buddy Holly glasses, for utility and not fashion. But I don't remember actually PAYING. I must have paid, they wouldn't let me leave the store if I didn't. Right?

The ride home is mostly uphill, and this bike of mine? I don't know, man. I think there's something wrong with it. I mean, even for someone of my size, there should be a setting where it's easy (albeit slow) to ride uphill, shouldn't there? It's a 21-speed bike, after all. But it's a cheap, no-name, made in China bike, so maybe not.

I made it all the way up the hill, and the next hill. In fact, I got within two blocks of home before I had to get off and walk the bike the rest of the way home. Then I had to sit down for a long time and catch my breath. I'm definitely weaker than I was a few days ago, because even on my weakest day, I can ride on a flat surface. But not yesterday. It's my own fault, though, because I barely ate anything. I have to remember to EAT things. A restrictive diet doesn't mean starvation. In fact, it means the opposite. I have to eat more of the things I CAN eat, because I have way fewer choices.

For dinner I made turkey with lemon rice - flavored with garlic, onion and capers. Even with all the strong flavors, though, the food tasted bland. It was the same thing the night before. I made curried tofu with peanuts. Curried tofu! And it was bland! Maybe it's my palate - without the (red) meat, dairy, sugar, salt, and all the rest, my taste buds are rebelling? I don't' know, but it sure feels that way. The only thing that really has any taste, it seems, is sweet sugary fruit.

The cravings started yesterday too. I thought I'd be desperate for some cheese, but the thing I wanted more than anything, yesterday, was a shot of amaretto. It doesn't help that we have a bottle of it sitting in the bookcase. I'm looking at it right now. Oh, the sweet nutty flavour, the warmth as is slides down the throat, the happiness in the center of the stomach... I could mix it with coffee, or in a drink, or make tiramisu with it! Oh, tiramisu! So decadent! So forbidden!

D.'s on a non-dairy diet right now as well. Sent her an email yesterday:
"I didn't realize how much my diet depended on cheese!"
She replied:
"Cheese and yogurt and ice cream and butter and and and.... >_<"

I think it must be harder to cut out one thing at a time, because you can overcompensate (and therefore get sick of) other things. If I cut out dairy, I'd overindulge on soy. If I cut out meat, I'd... overindulge on soy :) If I cut out sugar, I'd overindulge on salt.

Salt. That's another thing. The inside of my mouth has tasted really salty for the past few days. I brush my teeth (but no mouthwash, because it contains alcohol), I rinse my mouth with water, whatever. Nothing seems to remove the salty film from my mouth. Maybe this is a good thing, though? Maybe it's excess sodium leaving my body? That's what I'd like to think, at least for now, because another reason I'm doing this cleanse is to (hopefully) get my sodium levels back down to normal.

Before I gave my grandma a kidney, my mom said, grandma had been on a low-sodium diet for years. The diet, apparently, was to help extend her kidney function. My mom is worried that since giving grandma a kidney, my body's not processing sodium the way it did before, and maybe that's why I'm gaining weight. The doctors didn't say anything about that. They didn't say anything about long-term effects of the operation. What they said, and I'll quote as best I can from memory here, is "you won't have to change your lifestyle in any way." They warned me about complications during and right after surgery, like hernias from heavy lifting, but that's about it. My grandma had problems with sodium because her kidneys didn't work right. So maybe, just maybe, I could have sodium problems too. Who knows? It's worth a shot. And in the process, I'm getting healthier, and hopefully losing some weight.

After dinner, I settled in for a night in front of the new digital cable box: Wipeout, I Survived a Japanese Game Show, Krog Mandoon and the Flaming Sword of Fire. (Side note: In three years, when I read this over, am I going to remember any of these TV shows? Probably not.) But I got restless. I just... and this is unusual for me... I just couldn't sit on the couch, watching TV. Poor H. probably thought I was going crazy. First I filed all our old bills, cleaned up the piles of paper on the coffee table, and swept the floors. Then I cleaned all the old food out the fridge. Then I got out a bucket, filled it with water, added a dash of bleach, and disinfected the fridge. Then I... well, then I was done.

One last note before I go: poo. That's what a cleanse is all about, right? It's about cleaning the bad stuff out of your colon, and the colon expels things in the form of poo. You're supposed to stick close to home because of poo. I don't really want to go into the details of poo here, but I will say this: the first day of the cleanse, I pooped a lot more than usual. The second day, I barely pooped at all. As I write this, I'm into the third day, and... something's definitely happening in there. The size, the texture, the... yeah, I've gone too far into poop talk now. Let's just say that something is different, and I feel... yes it's true... cleaner than I did a few days ago. Not minty fresh, but... lighter. It doesn't feel like my body is a black hole anymore.

Also: I've lost 2lbs. Woot! Only 90-something to go!

Also: H. is supportive, but he's not doing the cleanse himself. That means yesterday he went out and bought chocolate bars, Coca-Cola, cinnamon buns. You know, the usual. And because he's a sweet and generous guy, he offered me some chocolate. I refused, and you know what? It wasn't all that hard to say no, because I knew there was an awesome peach in the fridge with my name on it.
I know he wasn't trying to make me "break my diet" by offering me chocolate, that's not the way he is. His mom runs a daycare, he was raised around small children. He's the best sharer I've ever met. He was just being polite. But still, on the off-chance he was trying to tempt me, I countered by trying to tempt HIM to join me on the other side. How did I do that? I gave him my last organic Valencia orange. I said to him, "this is the best orange you'll ever have. Do you want it?" So simple, so effective. :) He ate it and loved it.

Cleansing?

2009-07-21T10:35:00.000-07:00

So, as those of you I've seen lately know, I've gained a lot of weight in the past few years. Well, more to the point, I've gained a lot of weight since high school. At last count, it was close to 100 pounds that I've gained in the past 13 years... which doesn't sound so bad when you space it out like that, I guess. But the truth is, I gained most of that weight since H. moved in. I'm not blaming him - the only one who can make me do anything is me, right? But it's a fact, I've gained at least half of this weight since he moved in.
Most of it, I'm sure, is because of our diet. H. loves his candy, sweets, junk food. There's always Coca Cola in the house, always ice cream (although I did get him to switch to frozen yogourt), always beer and potato chips and those other bad, yet attractive, things. He's also European, and I don't know what it is about European guys, but they just LOVE their meat. I mean, I barely ever ate meat when I lived alone. I might have meat once or twice a week, tops. Now we eat it at every meal, and I don't like it.
Here's what a typical day looks like in terms of food:
Breakfast - sandwich (bread, meat, cheese) and a cup of coffee. Possibly from Starbucks, which means it's probably a cappuccino or macchiato instead of plain old coffee.
Snack - granola bar, more coffee, and if anything's lying around (half-empty bag of chips, cookies, etc) that'll probably get eaten too.
Lunch - sandwich (bread, meat, cheese)
Dinner - a typical dinner in our house? Frozen pizza, storebought sushi, pasta with ground beef, hamburger helper with veggie ground round. Little, if any, vegetables. Mix with beer.
After dinner - this is the biggest problem, I think. H. and I both snack until bedtime on chips, cheesies, candy, ice cream, and whatever else is available.

Right now, in my kitchen, there is a package of cinnamon buns, a bag of Italian hazelnut and chocolate cookies, a half-eaten bag of cheesies, a bag of blue corn tortilla chips, and a box of something called "breakfast chocolate" which H. says is like hard Nutella. Oh, and a jar of Nutella hidden in the back of the cupboard. And a big block of cheddar cheese, two or three different kinds of bread, two kinds of frozen yogourt, a bucket of "frozen mojito drink", and I'm sure there's some candy around here too.

Add to that the fact that neither H. or I is very active. We live what they call "sedentary lifestyles". We have a car, and we use that car whenever we can. To the grocery store. To the corner store. To the video store. A typical night finds H. in front of the computer, me in front of the tv, until we go to bed. Recently I've started going to the gym 3 times a week, which is good, but that's pretty much the ONLY exercise I get.

So that's why I'm fat. I've tried a bunch of things to lose weight - last year I walked 10km / day for a month, this year I did Slim Fast for a month as well, not to mention in the past when I'd tried The Zone, Atkins, diet pills - and nothing works. I can lose a few pounds, but nowhere near the close to 100 I'd LIKE to lose. My problem isn't willpower, I have lots of that. I'm a motivated person by nature. My problem is a lack of enthusiasm. I mean, I did Slim Fast steadily for a month, and lost 1 pound! I walked 10km every day and didn't lose anything! It's so very frustrating.

The only times I've lost weight are when I'm sick. In 2000 I caught a horrible flu and couldn't eat for, like, a week. For a couple days, the only thing I could stomach was water. I was in and out of consciousness, sweating like a pig, and... and I lost, like, 15 pounds. I wasn't fat then, but after losing the weight, people started telling me how good I looked. A friend of mine told me, years later, that he developed a serious crush on me around the same time. He said he didn't notice I'd lost weight... he just noticed I was beautiful. Hmmmm.
In 2005 I donated a kidney to my grandma. After surgery I was on a morphine drip, sliding in and out of consciousness for a day or two. I couldn't walk, or go to the bathroom, or anything. I definitely couldn't eat. For a few days I had water and clear broth, then moved up to popsicles and jello, and finally, on my last day in the hospital, I had some chicken soup. Why? Because I couldn't poop. One of the side effects of the anesthesia and the air they pumped through my body during surgery. I couldn't poop. It was painful. On the way home from the hospital, my mom's husband was hungry, so he stopped and bought a hamburger. Now, I love hamburgers, but this one? It smelled like shit. Like actual barnyard SHIT that had been out in the hot sun for a few days, swarming with flies. I vowed at that moment that I would never eat a hamburger again... and I didn't, until H. came along. But in the time between the operation and hooking up with my future husband, I lost close to 20lbs. After the surgery I had to take laxatives for a while, and I couldn't eat a full serving of food because my stomach had shrunk. I couldn't drink anything carbonated because my stomach was sensitive, so no beer or soda. I couldn't drink too much alcohol because it made me feel sick (with no happy drunkenness - just sick).
But when H. moved in, I wanted to show him I was a good partner. And he'd moved here from Sweden, you know, so I wanted to make a home for him. The first few months he was here, I made ham, pot roast, lasagne, meatballs, steak, fried chicken... I made any "home cooked meal" I could think of. And of course, all the recipes I used were for 4, 6, 8 people. And of course, there's only 2 of us, and I hate wasting food. And of course, the only real exercise we got was sex (sorry Dad).
Anyways. All this is leading to the point of this post... sorry it's taken so long to get there :) I've gained a lot of weight, and I know it's because I'm not living healthy. I've been going to the gym, like I said before, for a few months now. I've lost 2 pounds. Woo. So I remember a friend of mine, last year, doing this thing called the Bioxy cleanse. Then a few weeks ago, some other friends were talking about how, after a holiday, they cleansed all the bad stuff out of their bodies. I thought "maybe I should try this!" So I did some research, and while I'm still a bit leery of pills bought online, I found a site detailing how to create your own "cleanse diet".
So, for the next 5 days (starting today) I'm going to be following my own cleansing diet. Here are the rules I gathered from various websites:

no red meat or dairy
no caffeine or alcohol
eat as many organic fruits and veggies (the more colourful the better) as you can
take a multi-vitamin
No processed foods (this means frozen meals, salad dressings, sauces, condiments, meats, or anything else that didn't grow that way)
drink at least 8 glasses of water per day
shower (and scrub well with a loofah) twice a day
eat some kind of protein (white meat, tofu, eggs, nuts) at every meal, if you can.

It sounds like it might be a bit hard... I mean, I'm addicted to caffeine but even MORE addicted to dairy. But I'm gonna give it a try.

Yesterday, to start things off, I went to Planet Organic and bought berries, onions, broccoli, baby potatoes, corn, etc. Then H. and I went to Thrifty's and bought some fresh salmon for dinner. We had a wonderful meal of salmon, new potatoes, and garden salad (lettuce, cabbage, carrots). I thought I couldn't have any oils, so I squeezed lemon on the salad for flavour. Eeew. Glad to know I can at least make my own salad dressing :) For dessert we had some organic strawberries, and oh my god. They were the ripest, reddest, tastiest strawberries I've ever had in my life. Then we had some green tea and went to bed. I slept like a baby, but don't know if it was because of the food or because I was tired :)

So technically today is my first day of the cleanse, because yesterday I had a granola bar :) So I said I'd start today.

Breakfast: I woke up... not hungry. So I made some green tea, poured water in my bottle, and got ready for the morning. I forced myself to eat an orange (organic valencia from Planet Organic... once again, so tasty! I think I'd forgotten what an orange actually tastes like!) then got to work on household chores.
I thought about going to the gym, since I haven't gone in a few days, but all the websites I read said you should stay close to home for the first few days of the diet. So I think instead I'll get on the exercise bike.
How many calories are in a cup of green tea? Because I'm sure I'm gonna be substituting green tea for coffee. It appears to be 0. Well. Okay then.
It's almost 1pm, and the only calories I've ingested are from that valencia orange. I've had 2 cups of green tea, two bottles of water (close to a litre, I guess), and I'm not hungry. Maybe the caffeins in the tea is keeping me pepped, I don't know, but I feel like I have more energy than usual too. I've done the laundry, changed the bedding, cleaned the bathroom, done the dishes, and taken out the recycling. And spent a couple hours on this blog :) That's more than I usually do in a day, and like I said, it's not even 1:00.
Next on my agenda: figure out dinner. H. isn't doing this cleanse with me, but he IS subject to my dinners. I don't think we can afford fresh salmon for dinner every night, so tonight I'm gonna try to do something with tofu. My mom put me onto this website called Food Down Under, where you enter the ingredients you have, and it pops out a recipe for ya. I'm gonna see if they have much in the way of tofu recipes :)
My stomach is starting to growl now, but I don't know what to eat. That's going to be the biggest problem, I think... not knowing what to eat. But I'll figure something out.
Hopefully I'll remember to check back in at the end of the day.

LATER

we also got digital cable yesterday, so sticking close to home for a few days isn't so bad :)
For dinner we had some quinoa, curried tofu, and corn on the cob. A fully yellow meal. That wasn't on purpose, it just happened that way. As soon as dinner was finished, I started thinking about tomorrow's meals. What am I going to eat for breakfast? What about dinner? Food Down Under wasn't as good as I thought it would be. There were a tonne of redundant, repeated recipes, especially for things like curried tofu. So tomorrow, since poultry is allowed on this diet, I'm going to make turkey with lemon rice.

So on another topic.. I'm on Twitter, and I subscribe to Neil Gaiman's feed. That man writes SO MUCH! Not just Twitter, though - blogs, short stories, EVERYTHING. He's prolific. How does he do it? Confidence comes from success, I guess... but what about inspiration? Writing just seems so HARD these days. It's like I don't know where to begin. I put so much weight on the act of creation that I psych myself out.
Anyways... watermelon for dessert, maybe some more green tea, then bed. I'm sure I'll sleep peacefully tonight.

I'm famous!

2009-07-13T19:07:00.000-07:00

I submitted a pic to Fail Blog! You can see it (and vote for it) here:

That is all :)

2009-07-11T00:22:00.000-07:00

working on a new music video.
here's the song: it's called "skuld II".

http://www.myspace.com/skuldkansla

observations while walking down the street

2009-07-09T13:40:00.000-07:00

This blog? it takes no "effort" because I'm not worried about "creating art."
What is creating art? It's purposely sitting down to make something good, it's worrying about craft (in my case; grammar, sentence structure, image, cleverness) and meaning. Which I don't really do here.
why do i always apologize to homeless people when I don't give them change?
i lied to a homeless guy and said I didn't have any cash. I did. I had a $20 in my wallet. Briefly I flirted with the notion of saying I'd give him the $20 if he let me interview him, ask him why he was on the street, all that. So I could tell his story to someone.
Why didn't you buy him food? He was eating pizza.
Why didn't you give him money? He was drunk.
Why didn't you guide him to places that could "help" him? I'm sure he knows those places better than I do, and there's probably a reason he's sitting on the street corner, drunk, eating pizza, asking for change.
In my mind his face is sooty, like a portrait from the Great Depression. In reality it wasn't.

my stories are not good because they're not completely coherent. I need to work on that. I need to work on logical progressions.

saw myself at age 70: overweight, bent, wearing a sun visor, with a shrivelled little gentleman on my arm. That would be H. We both walk slowly (but as fast as we can) towards a golden Toyota Corolla. I have the keys. I'm driving. He's cool with that.

bought eyeshadow. girl at the counter seemed disgusted with my colour choice. i bought a set of 3 metallic shades: gold, bronze, shimmery black. i now have 3 different types of black eyeshadow.

this? this takes no effort because I'm not thinking about it, not trying to draw conclusions or tell a story.

i'm slowly turning into a zombie. that's why I have so much black eyeshadow.

2009-07-09T07:39:00.000-07:00

I have nothing pressing to say. I just woke up to a barrage of kisses. Sometimes H. does that :) I can't say I mind. In fact, my response was "I can't think of a better way to wake up." He said "what if I had a tray of waffles and eggs and hot coffee?" Okay, that might have been *slightly* better. Then again, I might have been covered with food before I made it out of bed. :)

So I'm on Twitter now, if you want to find me. Look up my email address.

alright. so last night I figured out my "writing problem". Reading over that heavy metal essay, I felt like (and I know it's not necessarily true, but I felt like) I've been a lazy writer. I was lazy with that piece, and I probably won't post it here, because I feel like it's not a "good example" of my writing. D asked yesterday over dinner, "why are you writing about things you don't like?" and before I could respond, A said "because she's a writer, and that's what writers do." I think it's a long-running discussion in their household. Which I understand.
It's a long-running discussion in mine, too, and every time I bring it up, H gets a bit frustrated. "Why don't you just WRITE?" he says. It's not that easy. We're raised (in the University, mostly) to think, perhaps not even consciously, that writers are above other people. That we have some sort of duty to humanity, that anything we set down in words will live on forever. I mean, in my last summer class, we discussed this over and over. One guy said writing makes him feel closer to God. Another said writers have a duty to improve the world with their words. Yet another said writers have a "higher calling" than other people. Every time someone made a comment about the "writer's duty", the class would clap appreciatively. "Oh yes, brilliant point, you are so astute, good job." And I'd squirm in my chair, trying not to be noticeable, but at the same time bursting to yell at these people.
Writers are NOT BETTER than anyone else. In fact, in the grand scheme of things, we're probably worse than most because we THINK we're better. I'm talking mostly of my predominantly white, predominantly middle-class fellow students here when I say "writer", just to make it clear. I'm not talking about people who witness events and feel a duty to report them, like the many people who wrote about the Holocaust. Those people have something to say, and a reason to say it. In that sense, they DO have a higher calling, at least for a while. But I don't know any of those kinds of writers. The ones I know are, like I say, mostly white, mostly middle-class, mostly students learning how to string words together. Just like me. In fact, I'm probably far less white than most of them because of my family and where I was raised. I'm not saying that students aren't valid writers, or that because of being white and middle-class they have no stories to tell. I'm just saying that we have to get over this idea that because we write, we're better than the average person.
And if you go into writing thinking everything you put down must be gold, because it's gonna live on forever... well, you've screwed yourself before you've even started. And that's my problem at the moment. H keeps telling me to just get my work out there, but I can't, because I keep thinking it's not good enough to be published. "It's really hard to build confidence in yourself," I said last night over dinner, "when your confidence is tied up in something that's going to be judged by some anonymous stranger." D added "and every opinion is arbitrary." Yes, exactly. If I got something published, even for free... it doesn't matter where, as long as I'm not SELF publishing it, you know? If I could do that, I'd have some confidence. But before that, I have to face the scrutiny of a bunch of people I don't know. And I'm already at a point where I don't like my own writing. It's so messy and comma-filled. I don't have anything I'm really PROUD of as far as writing is concerned, so I don't have anything I want to send out for publication. I don't have anything gold yet, is what I'm trying to say.
H keeps saying it doesn't matter if it's gold, maybe you don't think it's gold but someone else does. That's possible, I guess, but my low self-esteem won't let me truly believe that. In my head, my writing isn't very good. It doesn't stack up to the rest. I read other people's pieces, like EVERYBODY in writing workshop, even the ones that aren't so good, and I'm like "wow, how did they DO that? I couldn't do that." But I CAN. I just... maybe I'm getting soft. There's no structure, no deadlines, right now. I'm free to just WRITE. But all this freedom is stifling: I don't know where to begin.
I took a whole class on this! What are my stories? I don't know! I can tell you stories of my family, stories that didn't happen to me. I can tell you about my friends (although I'm betting they don't want me to). I can tell you about my parents. But none of this is really me. I don't know where to start!

Heavy Metal

2009-07-07T13:38:00.000-07:00

So I think my writer's block is caused by low self-esteem. That's no big revelation, I guess. Of course low self-esteem holds people back, and of course I've known for a long time that the only way to get ahead in this world is to sell yourself. And to sell yourself, you gotta BE confident, and if you're not, you gotta ACT like you are.
This weekend I was at a picnic, and I was sitting next to this girl. I know the girl, used to work with her, but haven't actually talked to her in almost a year. I don't know why, I mean, we get along just fine. I like her. We just haven't talked. Anyways, I'm sitting next to this girl, but for most of the time she had her back to me. At one point, though, she rolls over and looks me in the eye and is like "Hi!"
"Hi" I say back, "how's it going?"
"Good... how are you?"
"I'm good... just finished summer classes..."
"Oh, so you're just about done, right? Got a job yet?"
"Not yet..."
'What do you wanna do?"
"I want a writing job..."
"Like a newspaper?"
"Nah..."
"Magazine?"
"Yeah, that would be good..."
"That would be awesome! My friends writes for a [blah blah blah]" I tuned out then. Of course her friend writes for this or that. I have friends who write for this and that too. But _I_ don't write for anything, and I know I could if I wanted to. I just need to grow some balls, dig out of this hole of self-loathing, and GET MY ASS OUT THERE.

My problem is that I never think a piece is good enough for publication. I don't have the balls to submit anything for publication. So today, I read over the last piece I wrote for workshop last year. It's called "I Married a Metal Head", and it's supposed to be, like, a non-metal (read: girly-girl) guide to heavy metal. I thought it was a great idea, at the time, and had fun writing the piece. But now I look it over and... I don't know. Maybe it's not very good. I did some serious editing between the first and second drafts, and the second is a lot better than the first, but I still don't think it's something I would use in a portfolio. Which is what I'm trying to do. I'm trying to make a portfolio so I can start applying for writing jobs. Everyone else seems to have the confidence, so why not me? I KNOW I'm at least a half-decent writer, and I'm sure I'm better than at least a few so-called "professional writers". And I know that what I'm lacking is confidence. Not energy, not opportunity, not money. I'm lacking CONFIDENCE.
and it's like... it feels like all these essays I write have an expiration date, like they'll go bad if I don't get them out to the public within a certain amount of time. I never get them out, and they keep going bad. They're growing mold and stuff. So, I'm going to post that metal head piece here... not because I think it's amazing, but because I need to post SOMETHING. I need to take some stuff out of the cupboards, get it out there, and look at it from a distance. If I post it, I won't worry about "publishing" it.
But I'm not going to publish it today. First I'm gonna finish another draft :)

So many great things!

2009-06-26T09:29:00.000-07:00

First, I FINALLY got the Tribal Machine video up on youtube. Yeah, it only took... ummm.. 4 months. And I'm still not COMPLETELY happy with it, but H. made a good point the other day... I might NEVER be completely happy with it, and the only way to call it done it to just let it go. If I don't put it out there, I'll just keep tweaking it and tweaking it and I'll get more and more anxious about it, thinking it's not any good, and if I keep doing that I'll psych myself out of posting it altogether. So. After all that, here it is:

That's the first thing. Second, I'm registered for my last year of school! Woohoo! I'm almost ready to go out in the real world!

Third, and finally, there's an actual interview with Tommy Wiseau, creator of The Room, on the AV Club! You can read it here:

That's all, have a good day everyone!

I think today is a good day

2009-06-11T12:02:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning thinking of this:

Also related... some guy driving down my street, playing She Sells Sanctuary at high volume and singing along :)

2009-06-09T09:47:00.000-07:00

Excuse me if this blog post goes off on rants in all directions, or becomes illegibly stream-of-consciousness. I have a million ideas floating around in my head, and want to get them all out before I get too tired to think.
So. First: I'm taking a class about... well, I guess you could say it's about storytelling. But it's not REALLY about storytelling, it's about being a political writer. But it's not REALLY about being a political writer, it's about determining what exactly is "the truth." To this end, we've been reading stories about writers in war zones, writers covering genocide, writers telling the stories of marginalized people. Yesterday I led a small discussion group about the meaning of the word "truth". One of the questions I asked my group was "how do we determine what our own 'story' is?"
We talked for a long time about the nature of a good story - how it needs characters, conflict, detail. I tried to steer the group to talk about their own stories, to define who they were, but everyone steered away from that. Understandably. We don't know each other outside of class, why would we bare our souls?
But... I kinda WANT to bare my soul. No I don't. But I would like to know who I am, and where I fit in this crazy world. What are my stories? What are my obsessions? What are my passions?

Right now, I'm obsessed with the abortion debate that's raging in the USA. It's just INSANE. I mean, I sit up late at night, trying to understand it. It baffles me. I'm reading every article I can find on it, and all I can say, once again, is that I'm very happy to live in Canada. Even if I don't want or need an abortion, it's very relieving to know that the option is there. I mean, birth control comes first. But birth control isn't 100% foolproof, you know?
The other day, H. and I were talking about the abortion debate... well, actually, we've been talking about it a lot, because I keep bringing it up. I don't understand how two countries can be right next door to each other, have basically the same culture, and yet one country is full of crazy people. Anyways, he said something along the lines of "I don't understand the anti-choice logic." He didn't say that exactly, but you get the idea. So I had to think about it, like, what is the actual debate here? We get so focused on the violence and the politics, it's hard to keep the eye on the actual issue.
Here's what it is: it's philosophy. It's religion. Anti-choicers argue that life begins at conception, while pro-choicers argue that life begins when a creature can survive without medical assistance. One side is arguing religion, the other is arguing science, and they can't find a common ground.
I'm definitely pro-choice. That's not to say I PLAN on having an abortion. I don't think anyone looks forward to an abortion as if it's a rite of passage. But if I was pregnant, and in a bad situation, I would terminate the pregnancy. It's my decision, and my CHOICE, to do so. Don't get me wrong, I want kids. I plan to have kids. But if, as a mother, I'd have to choose between a bad life and no life for my child... well, I've done the bad life thing, and it would break my heart to think of anyone else going through that. Know what I mean? We want BETTER things for our children, not WORSE.
There's also the question of "the soul". H. doesn't truly believe in the soul, I think, but I do. I think the soul is linked to consciousness. Like when you think and dream, that's the soul. Some religions believe the soul is created at conception (Christianity, Islam), while others believe the soul passes from one being to another upon death and birth (Buddhism, Hinduism). In the case of one, abortion is equal to murder. In the case of the other, it's not.

Anti-choicers truly believe that a fetus, a "two-celled zygote" as they say, is a human being. And no amount of scientific facts or figures is going to change that belief. You can argue with them all you want, but if they truly believe in their cause, they won't hear a word you say. Their minds are closed to discussion. They think they're right, and moral, and justified in whatever they do. They think they're fighting a war, and in war, the rules are different.
I don't know... I keep thinking of Jesus Camp.
And I keep thinking how thankful I am to be in Canada, where I can make my own choices. But also where I can find the information I need to make INFORMED choices. I found a great quote yesterday that sums up how I feel about this whole thing:

“Believe nothing just because a so-called wise person said it. Believe nothing just because a belief is generally held. Believe nothing just because it is said in ancient books. Believe nothing just because it is said to be of divine origin. Believe nothing just because someone else believes it. Believe only what you yourself test and judge to be true.”

2009-06-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

This was taken from a blog post today about the murder of George Tiller:
“Language is powerful because it is how we order our thoughts. Who among us really thinks in abstract concepts? But it is also a complex game of Telephone, in which messages are relayed, misinterpreted, misapplied, misrepresented and misunderstood. The use of language is fundamentally imperfect because one's listeners are always hearing it through individual filters.” (http://jezebel.com/5273980/on-george-tiller-and-the-profound-power-of-language)

Stories like this make me very thankful to live in Canada, where we have laws not only protecting a woman's right to choose, but also laws forbidding anti-choice activists from protesting in front of clinics. These stories also make me very, very scared of America. Why isn't the US government doing more to protect its citizens? And why are people like Bill O'Reily allowed to go on TV and say that Tiller was running a "death mill"? I mean, yes, okay, First Amendment. He's allowed to say whatever he wants. But why isn't the public up in arms about this? Do the majority of US citizens really believe Tiller's murder was justified? I'm just... every time I hear a story like this, I wonder more and more how normal, practical people can survive among the crazies.
So here it is, something I don't think I've ever said in public before, because I'm not one to be political. But here it is: I am 100% pro-choice.
And one has to wonder why the majority of militant anti-choicers are male. Just sayin'.
Read the posting. It's very very good, and expresses my outrage better than I can.

can you be a bride without a tiara?

2009-05-29T09:35:00.000-07:00

I hate coming up with subjects for blog posts. Why is the subject the first thing you write? I don't know what the subject is until I'm done writing, for the most part. So, just a warning, there may be a lot of blank subject lines in this blog.
Morning. Coffee. It's so hot outside that when I woke up, I was already sweating. Both H. and I slept on top of the covers last night. Or, well, he slept and I watched him. He has a great sleeping face, and makes the most contented noises... he doesn't breathe when sleeping, he sighs. It's very sweet. Anyways, so hot outside that I don't want to leave the house, and I have many excuses not to: homework, transportation, temperature. Yet another inside day for me.
Last night, when I was trying to fall asleep, I had an idea for a book. No, not a book... yes, a book... I had an idea that COULD turn into a book, but I'm scared to start writing a whole book, so I want to start with a short story. I have an idea. I wrote the first few paragraphs in my head as I was falling asleep. I think it could be really good. But I'm not going to write the idea here, because I think y'all will steal it :) No, I'm not writing it here because I think if I let it out in any form other than the story, I won't write the story.
Opened up TM music video I've been working on for the past few months, and remembered that the last time I worked on it, I deleted all the images in the 2nd verse. So now I have work to do on that as well. I've been working on this thing, off and on, since February. Now it's at the point where I just want it to be DONE, you know? But I also don't want it to be a piece of shit. And I've watched it so many times now, I can't tell if it's a piece of shit or not, you know? I've shown it to a bunch of people, no-one's said it's bad, but then again...
H. and I went out with D. and A. last night, and as usual I drank too much, and I think I said some stupid shit. H. assured me I didn't, but I always feel like I do. Like I blurt out inappropriate things. Like my comment about weddings. It wasn't a reflection on D., I didn't mean it that way, it was like she said... for some reason, if it's for a wedding, it costs more. It makes me not want to get married again, but at the same time, I can't get rid of the idea that I'm not "acceptable" as a married woman unless H. and I have a big, ostentatious, overly-expensive wedding. Unless I wear a big dress and a tiara, and he wears a tux, and the bridesmaids all wear shiny dresses, and everyone drunkenly dances to "Can't Touch This" late into the night. Truth is, deep down, I don't really care if we do it or not. H. and I are really happy together, we have a really strong relationship and we communicate well and we're both respectful. There are no "red flags" in our relationship, and I think it's safe to say that were each other's best friend. But I can't get over this idea - in fact, have cried myself to sleep over this idea - that our marriage "doesn't count" because it wasn't a big affair, or because we didn't go through the "proper procedure" to reach the aisle. What do I mean by that? We were never engaged. I was never a fiancee. I went straight from girlfriend to wife, with no time to pick a china pattern. I wore regular clothes to the wedding (no big white dress for me!), didn't get my hair done... the only thing I did differently was to wear a bit more eyeliner than usual. What did it matter? We didn't have a photographer anyways.
I guess it's this idea that the wedding is supposed to make all the dreams come true... that it's supposed to be a reflection of your personality, and a sign of how much you love each other. The bigger the wedding, the more love. Or something. Or is it about being princess for a day? I've never been a princess to begin with. I'm not that kind of girl, you know? I've never been the pretty one in the group, I've never been the one who gets advantages because of the way she looks, I've never been the one guys approach and say "you're hot." No, I'm the one guys come up to and say "tell your friend I think she's beautiful." Yes, this has actually happened. More than once.
What kind of dream is the wedding supposed to make come true, though? I mean, when I run down the list of things I want out of life, "princess for a day" isn't on it. Neither is "family reunion." My list of life goals looks something like this:
* Find a good partner (someone you love, who loves you, who wants the same things out of life as you)
* Find a good job (one that can accomodate the lifestyle you want)
* Buy a house
* Have some kids and raise them to be good people
* Publish a book
* Make a movie

...and that's about it. If I can do (most of) these things in my lifetime, I'll die happy. So far, I've done the first one.
Getting back on topic: if a wedding is supposed to be a sign of how much you love each other (which, for some people, like S. and T., I think it is... they're really putting themselves into it...), and if H. and I didn't put much effort into our wedding, does that mean we don't love each other as much as other couples do? I say no, but I get the impression that other people don't think the same way.
Both my parents have been married twice. My dad is divorced twice, and my mom really SHOULD be divorced twice at this point. My parents, honestly? They should have never gotten married in the first place. I think both of them regret it, and I've grown up feeling like I'm the product of bad decision-making more than a product of love. I mean, they can't even be in the same room together, let alone have a conversation. So I don't put a lot of faith in marriage to begin with. H's parents, on the other hand, have been together almost 40 years, raised 2 kids, built a house from the ground up. They're partners, you know? And they never got married.
I should maybe look at it this way: H. and I had two choices. We could get married, or he could go back to Sweden. If he'd gone back to Sweden, true, we could've stayed together. But I've done that "long distance" thing before, and I knew that, more likely than not, we would have broken up. And I couldn't imagine my life without H. We didn't necessarily want to get married, but we did it so that we could stay together. I can't really think of a bigger expression of love than that.
Yet the doubts (and the voices) still linger... the eyes are silently judging me, saying I'm not a proper bride and, by extension, not a proper WOMAN because H. and I didn't do it up right. Because I didn't wear a tiara, and I don't have any diamonds on my finger. It sounds so silly when I write it out like that, but these thoughts really do go through my head. Why do I care so much what other people think? I shouldn't, but for some reason, I do.

2009-05-26T10:03:00.000-07:00

Maybe I should do this every morning, while I have the time? Sit here with my morning coffee, pour out all the things still in my head from last night. Hmmm.
Well, here's how my day went yesterday: I sat in front of the computer from 8am to about 11:30. In the background were the ever-present court shows, which, truth be told, keep me sane. They're what I watch instead of soap operas, because they're just as dramatic but without all the fuss of "investing in characters." You get a new story every 15 minutes or so. And you learn a bit about American law. I remember in Austria they had court shows as well, but the shows were fake. They were actually scripted, with actors and all that. FAKE court shows. It was strange. But they had just as many fake, badly-acted, badly-written court shows as we have "reality-based" ones. Anyways.
Then I decided I didn't want to go to film class if I didn't have to. See, here's the problem with being a film studies minor. Film classes are always 3 hours long, which means a 1-hour lecture followed by a 2-hour film. I have no problem with the lecture portion of the class. That's where the valuable info is, you know? But I hate sitting in a stuffy, darkened classroom, surrounded by people's breathing and sniffling and texting and (lately) Cantonese whispers... nothing against the guys I sit next to, but whispering on it's own is distracting, and it's even more distracting when it's in another language, because then the brain listens closer because it's trying to translate. I can't do it. I can't sit in that classroom for 3 hours a day.
And on top of that, my prof doesn't lecture about the films at all. He pretty much just talks about himself for an hour, then hits "play." He doesn't take attendance, and our marks are based solely on our written work and our "original perceptions" of the films we watch in class. In other words, there's no reason to GO to class. As long as the films are watched and the writing is done, there's no need to be there.
So I went to the video store, rented all the films I could find on the course list, and came home. Found out the rest of the films are in the school library, so really, I only have to go to class on the last day to hand in my work. One could almost say I'm ahead of the class right now. So why do I still feel guilty for not going? Because I'm not going today, either. Blah.
---------------------
Cut to 11:51 pm, the next day
I didn't go to class yesterday, but I did watch the film: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring. Very good film, I must say. Very Buddhist film, with the circular narrative, the focus on nature and impermanence and man's ability to be distracted by desire. Very good film.
Today was The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, another amazing film. Like seriously, this film is now in my Top 20, along with Wings of Desire (another film we watched in class!).
So here's my problem. Obviously, prof. and I have similar tastes in film. I've always felt that he and I could be friends if circumstances were different, not to mention his tendency to stare at me in class coupled with my tendency to say random things (like when he asked for a show of hands as to how many people had seen Wings of Desire, I was the only one to raise a hand, and said (loudly) "am I REALLY the ONLY ONE?". He then went on to say the film was one of his favourites, and he could teach an entire course on that one film alone...) I would say we were kindred spirits, and if the power dynamic were different (IE if he wasn't charged with grading my papers) we could be friends, eating expensive Italian meals with our spouses, then watching foriegn films and drinking red wine late into the evening. Especially in the summer. But alas, things don't work out that way, and I still have a term paper due on Wednesday.
My topic, I think, is going to be based on a quote from an essay by Tom Wolfe along the lines of "movies are the new books". I don't have the proper quote in front of me. Considering the class (a film class offered through the writing department) and the prof (a film enthusiast who mostly works in print), I think the topic is fitting. Now I just have to decide what stance to take. I don't know if I agree or disagree with Wolfe's statement. Is the print medium completely outdated, or is there still a place for books in our computer-dominated culture?
That's all for today (and yesterday....)

Good morning

2009-05-25T08:23:00.000-07:00

Monday morning, 8:23 am when I start writing. I'm awake, but only barely, and since getting out of bed have been putting on more and more clothes in an attempt to stay warm. Because what I really want to do is go back to sleep.
There's no food in the house, no bread, no breakfast-appropriate meal items, unless I were the type to eat "just eggs", which I'm not. In high school, eggs were a major pet peeve. I called them "chicken abortions", knowing full well that's not really what eggs are. I just liked saying "abortion" for the shock value. 10 years later, I've grown up a lot, and gotten over (most of) my egg disgust, but I'm still not the type to wake up in the morning and be like "mmmmmm.... time for eggs", you know?
So. Liquid breakfast. Coffee with the last dregs of the milk. 4 1/2 hours till class. 12 1/2 hours till I'm home again. But it's not that bad.
Saturday night was my birthday party, and in the hours leading up to the event, I got really nervous. Both Henrik and I were worried that, because of my fragility over the past few weeks, I might.... I don't know. Have a panic attack or something. Have a crying fit in the bathroom. I don't know. First I worried no-one would show up, like maybe they all had the day wrong. Then I worried that I had the date wrong. Then I worried that we'd get there late and forfeit our reservation. Well, none of these things happened. There were actually MORE people there than I anticipated, and even though only a few (three) of us were drinking, and only a few (three) of us continued the party after dinner, I had a great time. Being purposely vague because I don't want to talk about people who don't want to be talked about.
...she says in one breath, and in the next she starts to talk about them. :)
An interesting question was raised over dinner on Saturday. See, half the people at the table were over 30, while the other half were sneaking up on it pretty fast. I don't remember how it came up, but someone asked "what did you want to do before you were 30?" and the question went around the table. One person said they'd wanted to go back to school, and they'd done that, so they were happy. I said I wanted to own a house by the time I hit the big 3-0, and I realized it probably wasn't going to happen. Did this mean I was less successful than I'd expected to be?
Well... yes and no. In my teens, any ideas I had about success were related to "coolness", not to money. Getting married, having kids, owning a house... these weren't things I considered important. I just wanted a cool job and lots of money. Once I had that, I could change my goals.
Well, of course, priorities change fast when you get out into the real world. I found the cool, high-paying job, and I didn't like it. I met a guy who was working on a Masters degree, and all his friends were working on high-level degrees too. ALL his friends had some sort of extra education. Except me.
It didn't bother him at all, because I think deep down, if we'd stayed together, he'd expected me to be a stay-at-home mom like his own, perfecting the art of dishwashing, making hot lunches for the kids. But it really bothered me, because I couldn't see myself as equal to him or his friends without an education. Which is stupid, really, isn't it? Education isn't a gauge of intelligence. You can be brilliant with a 5th grade education, and you can be a moron with a PhD. But as far as class structure goes.... in this day and age, to get ahead in life, it seems like having a degree is almost a requirement. Why? I don't know. What is a degree supposed to prove? What does it prove? These friends of his, with their doctorates and whatnot... they might have lots of letters after their names, but they didn't know much about "real life", as my mom would say.
I don't know how much I'm learning in university. I went through my academic summary today, and it seems like the only thing I've really learned how to do is get better grades. My first year at UVIC, I got all B's. Second year, B+, A-. Third year, A-, A. This year, all A. All I've done is adapt my style to fit the school's criteria. Will this help me get a job? Probably not. Will it make me a better person? Definitely not.
Do I need those letters after my name in order to reach my goals? Yes. Yes I do. I'm not saying everybody does, because I know lots of people who get along fine without a degree. But for me, if I want a house, a new car, kids, vacations... a "normal" life, the life I wanted when I was a kid and my mom worked at Kmart... then yes, I do need those letters. But why? Because society says so? Because there's too much information in the world today, and public schools don't have time to teach kids everything? It used to be a degree would set you apart from the others. Now, the degree makes you blend in. Blah.
But I digress. The question was "what did you want to do by the time you were 30?" Seeing as how I'm 28 now, I'm in the strange position of still *possibly* being able to achieve my goals, and also seeing how far away they truly are. What I really want before I'm 30? I want to be pregnant. I want to have a kid. But I know I can't do that, at the very least, until I'm done school. And then I have to think about maternity leave. And living arrangements. We can't have a baby in this apartment, our neighbours would complain about the noise. We can't afford a house. Do we stay here or go to Sweden? If we go to Sweden, do I qualify for maternity leave? How does it all work? And can I get it all sorted in 24 months, in addition to getting pregnant, taking the proper vitamins, reading all the books, etc etc... it's probably not going to happen.
When I was 18, all I wanted by the time I was 30 was... well, I'd wanted to make a name for myself. I'd wanted to meet important people, make them like me, and become important myself. But the word "important" is a bit vague, a bit abstract, a bit arbitrary. Who would decide if I was important or not, you know? It was an unattainable goal because it wasn't concrete. So I have to give up on it. Being important doesn't matter as much, these days, as being comfortable. And healthy.

Malaise

2009-05-07T17:43:00.001-07:00

What day of the week is it? Thursday? It's Thursday, right?
Henrik nods and says mmmhhhmm, so I guess that means yes. The Canucks are playing, which also lends credibility to the idea that it is, in fact, Thursday. So we're going to say it's Thursday, even if it actually isn't... oh, and Lost was on last night, which means yesterday was Wednesday. Okay. I truly believe it's Thursday now.
See, I'm having trouble keeping the days straight, because I've barely left the house in a week. This is what happens when I have "time off": I stay indoors, sometimes not even getting dressed (like today, I'm still in pj's (although a different pair than the ones I wore to bed last night... "day pj's", if you will...) and have no plans to leave. I tried convincing Henrik to check the mail for me, but no dice. So, putting the shame of being in pj's at 5pm aside, I went and checked the mail. And of course, there wasn't anything in our box.
Yesterday I went out for a little while... I drove Henrik to work, and we stopped at Starbucks for cappucinos. Then I came home, got (properly) dressed, did my hair, etc etc. Then I went up to the Uni for a minute, got a new sticker for my student card. Then... well, then I went home. I had so many plans for my "big day out", too. I was going to buy some new lipstick (a nice dark pink, like Blair Waldorf...), maybe a new brow liner, maybe get my hair done, and most likely hit the fabric store. But after going to school, I got... I don't know. Not anxious, necessarily, but... just... not in the mood. I didn't want to do anything except go home. I thought "what's the point of buying makeup when you never leave the house?" "what's the point of looking at things in a store when you can look at them online?" and so on.
Then on the radio they were talking about the big cruise ships at Ogden Point, and I thought, "okay. Let's go see the ships." Not that this is anything I'm really interested in... I live close to Ogden Point, I see cruise ships all the time. It's just boats. But hey, the biggest ships EVER to Ogden Point? That's kind of exciting. So I drove towards the ocean. But then, a few blocks from my house, I got... I don't want to say nervous, but I didn't want to go anymore. I worried about traffic along Dallas Road. I worried about hitting one of those horse-drawn carriages. I worried about thousands of Americans milling about. So, at the very last second, I turned and headed home instead.
Then when I got home, I had nothing to do. This past week, I've spent more and more time each day reading. Just reading. Mostly blogs, the type that get updated every few minutes with inane stories. And every hour I spent reading these blogs was an hour of productive time that I lost. And I KNEW that, but I kept reading, kept hitting "refresh", hoping against hope that some story would spark my creativity and I'd start writing. Needless to say, that didn't happen. I did see lots of pictures of Rihanna in a black suit, though.
I'm just... blah. My mom once told me that every day, you should do something, at least ONE THING that makes you feel like you've accomplished something. Every day, you should have some sort of project. Even if it's something small like doing laundry or cooking dinner, every day you should be able to say you DID something. Today? I feel like I've done nothing. I've done stuff: I've cleaned, I've done laundry, I've looked online for a new apartment (Henrik got a raise! woohoo!). But it still feels like even though I've done stuff, I haven't ACCOMPLISHED anything.
It's like working out. I work out 3 or 4 times a week, either at the gym or at home. I've been doing this for a few months now. But... well... it seems no matter how hard I work, no matter how many calories I burn, I never see results. I measured myself the other day, and I'm the exact same size I was a year ago. On the one hand, I'm glad I haven't gotten bigger, considering I spent the winter in a semi-vegetative state. But on the other, I haven't lost any bulk either. I'm dieting now as well, and I've been doing that for about two weeks... and yeah, you guessed it, no results from that either. I don't understand it. It seems the only way I ever lose weight is through illness. The last time I lost a significant amount of weight, I had a kidney removed. The time before that, I caught a horrible horrible flu. In between, I ate right, went to the gym, counted calories, tried to take care of myself. But no matter what I did, the most I could hope for was to maintain. I just can't seem to lose weight without illness or major surgery.
Maybe that's what this blog should be about. Maybe if I force myself to write about it, it'll actually start happening.
No... everyone and their pet has a weight loss blog. And anyways, mine would be a total disappointment.
I've been getting more and more depressed these days, and when I get depressed, I always focus on things like weight. I, personally, don't mind my body. And neither does Henrik. I can buy (or make) nice clothes, I can do my hair, etc. I can be pretty when I want to be. But when I get depressed, I worry about what OTHER people think of me. My depression always comes back to this feeling that I'm being judged, not by any one particular person, but by society as a whole. I'm too fat, I'm too old, I'm too poor, I'm not talented, no-one likes me, I'll never do anything with my life. The question "too fat for what?" or whatever never comes up... that's not the point. The point is, when I'm depressed, it's because I don't live up to some sort of self-imposed bar that I've set. Has weight ever stopped a writer from expressing themselves? No. Has age ever stopped someone from buying lipstick? Probably not. Has talent ever stopped someone from watching a ship dock? I doubt it.
So I should focus on the positive. Okay, by society's standards I'm "fat." What can I do about it? Diet and exercise. Check. What else?
Learn to sew. I'm kind of excited for tomorrow, because Butterick patterns go on sale at Fabricland, and Butterick has some AWESOME historical patterns... 50's-era retro party dresses, Victorian bustle skirts, corsets... yeah :) I'm not quite down with their "contemporary" patterns, but the historical stuff is really good, and I'm glad they've re-released some of those old patterns. Same with Simplicity, whose patterns go on sale at Fabricland NEXT week... and they have a pattern for the exact dress I want to make for Sever and Tansy's wedding. Tansy says it should be purple, so therefore it will be. To go with that Blair Waldorf lipstick I will eventually go to the store and buy.
Writing and sewing are the only things I'm really excited about these days. I love the idea of making my own clothes, wearing what I actually want to wear instead of whatever I can find in my size. I love the idea of having complete control over my own image. I have so many ideas, especially for dresses, in my head, and I want to GET THEM OUT, but I'm not skilled enough (yet) to draft my own patterns. Hopefully after I've made a few more pieces, I'll get the hang of things. So far, my only really successful (meaning wearable) pieces have been two black dresses that I made with the same pattern, but one I modified so it was a bit less "casual". I've tried making a few skirts, but none of them have really turned out. Soon, though: soon I'll be making my own clothes, my own jackets, my own... hopefully everything. Except sweaters. I'll still buy sweaters.
The worst thing about being depressed is seeing how it affects other people. Poor Henrik, every time I'm sad he thinks it's his fault and tries to make me better. He does silly little dances, or he kisses me all over my face, or he makes up a song. It's very cute, and it makes me love him a bit more every time he does it, but sometimes I just don't want to smile, you know? And then I feel bad because I know he's trying to make me smile, and then I'm letting him down, and then... the cycle continues. I know he's been through it too... I've spent the past few years, while HE was stuck in the house, trying to keep him in good spirits. Maybe on some level, he feels like he's returning the favour. Maybe that's the problem... I'm so bored these days, my boredom has turned into malaise.
Well, soon it will be done. Next week I'm back to school, and then I've got to find myself a full-time job. Once I'm working, I won't be so bored. And I'll have more money, which means I'll be able to do more stuff. Not that I WILL do more stuff... but at least the option will be there. And in the meantime, like I say, Butterick patterns go on sale tomorrow, so I'll have something to occupy my time until Monday.

Writing exercises / The Room

2009-05-04T10:51:00.000-07:00

My goal is 750 words per day. Think I can do it? I do. 750 words isn't all that much, especially when (like me) you're reading Tom Wolfe, and it takes DAYS to finish one article. My god, that man can go on.
Anyways, 750 words a day. I'm not saying I'm going to post the products here, but then again, maybe I will. If you have any topics to write about, any writing exercises, any ideas, let me know in the comments.
...and no, I'm not counting this as part of the 750 words. I filled my quota this morning.

And also. The Room. If you haven't seen it, you MUST. They have two copies of it at Pic A Flic, and from what I read, we're very lucky to have that. Because the film is independently distributed (by Mr. Wiseau, I believe), video stores have to be "approved" before they can buy copies of the film for rental purposes.
I'm not going to explain what The Room is to you, as many people have done it better than I can:
http://www.theroommovie.com/
http://www.avclub.com/articles/the-room,25723/
http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20246031,00.html
http://www.youtube.com/results?orig_query=the+room&search_query=the+room+tommy+wiseau&orig_query_src=4
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Room_(film)

...I just wish this film had been around when I was in film school, because everything we did wrong in those student films, they did wrong here too: plot holes, continuity errors, focus problems, scenes out of context, bad dubbing, overly dramatic lighting... this movie is BEAUTIFUL. And priceless. And best of all, it's SINCERE. Tommy Wiseau likes to say, now, that the film was intended to be a comedy. But once you see it, you'll know that's SO not true. What makes the film so priceless is the earnestness of it, the seriousness. After seeing the movie, watch the "Behind The Scenes" montage. No-one on set was laughing. Or smiling.

Maybe the best way to describe how great the film is is this conversation I had yesterday at the video store, when I rented The Room for the 2nd time:
Me: Hi *gives cashier name and phone number*
Cashier: Oh, you have a 2 dollar late charge.
Me: Right, for The Room.
Cashier: Right.
Me: And now I'm going to rent The Room again.
Cashier: Awesome.
Me: Have you seen it?
Cashier: No, but we (she points to the guy behind her) were just talking about it. It's definitely on my list.
Me: It's AMAZING. There's this one scene where 4 guys are playing football. In tuxedos. For no reason at all.
Cashier: Ohmygod. That sounds awesome.
Guy: Are you talking about The Room?
Cashier: Yeah, weren't you just saying...
Guy: How it's the best movie ever? I had a dream about it last night. William Shatner and I were acting out scenes from it.
Me: Wow.
Guy: What do you think about the tuxedo scene?
Cashier: She was just talking about that!
Guy: My theory is that it's supposed to be the wedding rehearsal...
Me: Maybe, but why would the wedding rehearsal be before the birthday party, when the birthday party is a WEEK away and the wedding is a MONTH away?
Guy: Good point. I don't know. But that's the beauty of The Room.
Me: Very true.

See this movie... not because it will make you cooler in my eyes (which it will), but because if you're a fan of movies that are so bad they're good, this movie will become your next great obsession.

Outliers

2009-04-13T09:55:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I read Malcolm Gladwell's book Outliers, and it changed my outlook on what it takes to be successful in today's world. In the book, Gladwell provides case studies - biographies, if you will - of a variety of succesful people, from lawyers to hockey players to Bill Gates. But rather than just charting their career histories, as would happen in a business case study, Gladwell probes beyond the surface to discover the hidden secrets or advantages certain people had. For example, Bill Gates is successful because he know computers. Okay. We all know that. He dropped out of Harvard to start Microsoft. He didn't need college anymore. Why? Well, by the time he started Microsoft, he'd spent almost 10 years working on computers full-time, not to mention studying them in school. He surrounded himself with computers, and even though he might've been frustrated with them at times, he was never bored. And by the time he quit school, he'd probably logged 10,000 hours working on computers. He'd been in the high school computer club (which his school had because he was from a wealthy neighbourhood), because computers were so new when he was in high school, him and his friends got jobs setting up networks for large companies arround Seattle. Then he bought a "make your own PC kit" from a magazine, and that was about that. 10,000 hours.
This is the secret, says Gladwell: if you do something for 10,000 hours, you become an expert in it. If you play hockey for 10,000 hours, you're probably really good at it... and you're probably in good shape, too. If you write for 10,000 hours, you're probably good at it as well.
So the other night I sat down and tried to calculate how many hours I've spent writing. I took my 12th birthday as the starting point, because that's when I started journalling, and calculated up till Saturday. I figured that, on average, I've spent 3 hours a week writing. Sometimes more, of course, but I've also gone months writing nothing except emails. And I came up with a figure. According to my calculations, I've spent approximately 2340 hours writing since the age of 12. That's well short of 10,000. It's possible this number could be higher or lower - I haven't really been keeping track - but it just goes to show that I have a LONG road ahead of me if I want to become an excellent writer.
And it also goes to show that our professors are right. The only way to become a better writer is to WRITE. Constantly. Even if you're writing shit, you have to put in the time.
If you write 20 hours a week for 52 weeks, that's 1040 hours. Do that for 10 years and you're past the 10,000 mark.
If I write 20 hours a week for 8 more years, I'll become an expert. Most likely I won't do that. So if I keep writing 3 hours per week, it will take me another 49 years to log 10,000 hours.
Look for my first book 2058!

So Mickey Rourke walks into a bar...

2009-04-02T19:44:00.000-07:00

...and walks out with an open beer. Sorry, it was an Italian restaurant.
How is this news, people? I mean, really? I thought news was supposed to be about things the average person wouldn't do. I've done worse than that. I know someone who stole a complete set of cutlery from Earl's - they really liked the fork-spoon hybrid thing they had.
I mean, really. Isn't smoking a bigger crime than taking an open beer out of a restaurant? In Victoria it is. They'll confiscate your beer, but they'll fine you for smoking.

http://www2.canada.com/victoriatimescolonist/news/story.html?id=956d25ed-59d1-4c9b-875b-94bcb525a8ed&k=66036

Now, for the record, I quit smoking a while ago (and as far as my mother knows, I never started. Although there was this one time I was smoking a Camel Light out my bedroom window, and the dog started pawing at the carpet, trying to dig a hole through the floor and save me... mom came running up the stairs and asked me what was going on... she must have known, but ignored it. Like she ignored so many things for the sake of politeness. I wish I was able to be as demure as my mom sometimes. But anyways, I digress...)
And I think every smoker should quit, if only for the extra lung capacity. But I don't think the government should have so much control over where and when people do things they want to do. Smoking isn't the greatest thing in the world, but it's a choice people make. If the government is allowed to outlaw smoking, what next?

I remember the first time I had a cigarette. I was 11 years old, in seventh grade. My friend Jess snuck some DuMaurier Lights from her mother's purse, and we stood outside my apartment building, right next to the intercom. I lived in this strange multi-building complex on a hill. Next to us was an empty parking lot, and beyond that, an abadoned pool. The pool had been dry since we'd moved into the building. The buildings were labelled A, B, C, D, and each was named after a kind of tree. We lived in the Cedar building. Once I found human feces in the stairwell. But anyways, I digress. Again.
My mom was still at work, and I was in seventh grade. I'd skipped a grade so I was younger than everyone, and even though seventh grade is like desperation in a can, I was extra desperate becase I was younger. I'd changed schools the year before because the girls in class picked on me - I was younger than them but had boobs, and they didn't. They wouldn't let me join the "special girls" club, where they all talked about "growing up" and getting their peiods and having boyfriends and french kissing. They said I was too young. Even though, like I said before, I was the only one with boobs. And house keys.
And once again, I digress. Jess and I are standing outside, in front of the intercom. Bushes hide us from view of the cars that, if they drove by, would be parking in the abandoned parking lot. Ghosts froliced in the empty swimming pool. Jess was extremely short, and she wore big glasses. She kinda looked like Velma from Scooby Doo, except she was 12. And she hated her life. Then again, what kid in grade 7 doesn't hate their life? Jess was so desperate to be in what she perceived to be the "popular" group, which at our school consisted of pretty much everyone. There was the one girl who was, like, the head of the group, and we'd all meet up before school and walk to her house and meet her, then walk to school - there was a group of, like, five of us that would do this. She only lived a block away from school, though. Anyways, she was the queen, and anything she said was gold. She said it was cooler to smoke filterless cigarettes, so Jess snapped the filters off the DuMauriers she'd stolen from her mom's purse and threw them into the bushes.
"It's cooler to smoke them without the filter," she said, as though she was telling me something I hadn't heard before.
She'd stolen a lighter, too, although lighters weren't hard to come by. Everyone in my class had a lighter, although we only used them to light schoolbooks on fire or to burn illicit, filterless cigarettes, as Jess and I were doing.
It took a few tries to light the thing, although eventually the smoke filled our little orb of secrecy. It smelled, to my nose, like grandfathers. And like when my mom would come home from the bar and kiss me goodnight. And Jess's house. What it didn't smell like was coolness.
Jess smoked first, of course, since she's the one who stole them from her mom's purse. She put it to her lips and sucked in the weird-smelling smoke, quickly, as if gasping. Then she blew it out right away. Her saliva soaked into the paper, turning it from white to dirty grey. She handed the cigarette to me. I took it and, following Jess's lead, inhaled quickly. The paper felt wet, and wrong, against my lips.
"If this is smoking," I thought, "then I don't like it."

In high school, everyone smoked. They stood outside at lunch time, across the street from school grounds, and smoked like there was no tomorrow. The cool kids, the weird kids, the stoners. Everyone smoked at one time or another. It intimidated me. I wanted to hang out with the punks, but I didn't have access to cigarettes. I didn't have anything to offer them. My best friend smoked, her best friend smoked too. Seriously, the only one who didn't was me. I was even in a movie, "The Politics of Saturday Night," holding a lit cigarette but not inhaling. The voice-over said "look at me, I'm cool. I smoke. Really I do. I do. I'm cool."
One friend, Angela, was so addicted that she'd scour public ashtrays for butts, collect the tobacco into little piles, and roll her own. She became an expert at peeling the foil from the back of the paper in the cigarette pack. In the morning, on the way to school she found a whole cigarette on the ground. It was a bit wet from the rain, but whatever. It was part of her persona, though; part of what made her so endearing. She was a slave to her bad habits. But she could laugh about it. It was a great joke she'd tell to her friends, you know, yesterday she went to the pool just to dig through the ashtrays.
Then we were all 19, all old enough to buy our own cigarettes. And alcohol. I started smoking when I got drunk, "bumming" them off friends, saying I'd pay them back but never actually doing it. My favourite were Benson & Hedges, because they sounded British. Classy. I smoked "Black", which in Port Alberni was known as "Black and Gold." Why? Because that's what the guys smoked, and if I smoked it too, there was a good chance a guy would ask me for one and that means they'd have to talk to me. But on special occasions, like birthdays and picnics, we'd all split a pack of Camel Lights. Why? I don't know. It was a tradition that I stumbled into when it was already in full-swing, but it's something I did even just a few months ago. Even if I wasn't going to smoke them, it somehow seemed important to have a pack of Camel Lights.
Cigarettes were good, especially for someone like me who isn't really a "party girl", to make conversation with strangers. I knew if ever a scene got to be too much, I could escape outside with a cigarette and make small-talk with someone. Everyone wanted a cigarette at some point or another, you know?
My first serious boyfriend and I bonded over cigarettes. Vanilla cigarettes. I have an empty package of them somewhere, and it still smells like... those times. Like losing my virginity. Like standing on the veranda, him holding me from behind, cooing sweet (though overly intense) nothings in my ear. Like his family home, which in it's former life had been a slaughterhouse, but at the time made me feel serene. I could see the Alps from every window in the house, I could smell cigarettes from every room, and I felt comfortable. Like being in Austria in 9/11, imagining that the whole world could explode and I wouldn't even notice.

What am I trying to say? I don't smoke anymore, and surprisingly, I haven't even felt tempted to. But I don't fault anyone who DOES smoke. There is so much attached to the act of smoking, in our culture, over and above the health issues. Smoking, for me, marked quite a few rites of passage, and I don't feel bad about that. If people want to smoke, it's their choice, and the government shouldn't be able to regulate rites of passage.

Update:
http://www.avclub.com/articles/quit-smoking-or-theyll-abandon-this-kid,26109/

Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick

2009-03-05T12:11:00.000-08:00

I'm trying to write this stupid piece for stupid writing class. No no, class is not stupid. But my idea for this piece, perhaps, is. So I thought "okay, I can't just write this thing, my ideas are too jumbled." So I made a graph. I did a brainstorming session, with the little work-bubbles and all that, like we used to do in elementary school. I've only done that one other time since starting University, for a short story about Nanaimo. It was a bad story. Some of you have read it. Anyways, I did it for this piece, which means my mind's going in all directions, and I have no idea where to begin. So I thought maybe if I wrote them down here, they'd fall into order. Hopefully this will work.
So here's the idea. I can't stand heavy metal. No, really. It drives me crazy, and it always has. I just don't get it. But, you know, my luck, I married a metal fan. He likes to play it loud. He likes to watch metal videos on Youtube. He doesn't think it's funny when a guy dresses up head-to-toe in studded leather and paints his face to look like Skeletor. My husband seriously thinks that's cool. So, because I'm a good wife, I've tried to deal with it: I've listened to metal in the car (but only when he's driving), I've gone to some shows with him, I even brought metal into the bedroom for a while. I even, one year for Halloween, did corpse paint on hubby's face. But... I still... I just don't get it.
Here's what I don't get: guys talk about these dudes in metal bands, they talk about the "hard core" things they've done, like MURDER, like BURNING DOWN ANCIENT CHURCHES, like DRINKING BLOOD, like CUTTING THEMSELVES ON STAGE, like kicking the shit out of fans for no reason, like turning into f'ing berzerkers, like all these things are COOL. Like "wow, dude, that's so hardcore." What's the appeal in that? Is it a macho thing?
That's my theory - heavy metal is popular because it's macho. Metal is all a big dick-slapping competition.
How? Well, one, all the violence. Two, what are most metal songs about? War - whether about mythology, history, Nazis, the government, or anything else, most metal songs are about fighting. Not "rise above", but "I'm going to cover myself in your blood."
Two, who are the most respected names in metal? The ones with the most technical skill, be it nimble fingers on the guitar, an extremely fast drum beat, or a voice that can wail & growl with equal intensity. It's not about fluid creativity, or even originality. It's about who can play the hardest and fastest.
And that's why you don't see many women in metal. Most of us can't play as hard or fast as the guys. And when we CAN, like Lita Ford, we have to be sexed-up. We have to be turned into objects. Men get respect, women get objectified. Because metal is a macho dick-slapping competition.
What's the most important part of a metalhead's outfit? The tshirt. Why? It's like a dick. The more violent and obscure the tshirt, the bigger the dick.
But back to me. I don't like metal because:
1) I can't relate to the lyrics. I'm a writing student, lyrics are very important to me.
2) Not to mention, I can't understand what anyone's saying with all that growling and screeching.
3) Go to any metal show, and you'll see, the ratio of men to women is 10 to 1. I went to this one show a few months ago with some friends. We were the only table with more women than men. I think I counted maybe 20 chicks, and the place was full to capacity. (I'm not counting the wait staff who were, of course, all female)
4) Technical skill doesn't impress me as much as creativity. In the bedroom or otherwise.
YES! That's what it is! The essay isn't about heavy metal, it's about sex. It's about sex, gender, the differences between men and women. And the spark was my dislike of metal.
I wanted to write this essay to understand my husband a little better, so last night I kinda sort interviewed him while I was washing dishes (and he was playing Warcraft). Here's what I remember:
The difference between death metal and black metal is that in death metal they growl, while in black metal they screech. Cradle of Filth (one of the only metal bands I can stand) is black metal.
First metal album that struck him: "The Number of the Beast" by Iron Maiden. Also, he thinks, probably the first metal album he bought. And also possibly the BEST one he ever bought. (So I have to listen to that this weekend, I guess.)
What are metal songs about? Mythology, demons, war, etc. Depending on the type of metal and where the band comes from.
Metal helps him release agression without breaking stuff.

Then I cooked dinner and we watched LOST. Sawyer and the doctor lady are a couple? WTF?

I've read a couple books on metal now - one a sociology book about "tshirt culture" where one of the interview subjects, wearing a Slayer tshirt, claims "everyone knows this stuff is fake, it's all just image, you know?" But DO they? Because one guy really did go to prison for murder, and another one really did burn down some ancient churches. They went to prison. But their fans still think it's cool.
Maybe it's, like, "yeah they're totally hard core, they're not faking it for money or fame, they're the real deal." If they do it, other people don't have to. It could also be, like, male posturing. "I'm more of a man than you because I killed someone." I don't know.
Hokay. Those are my thoughts. Now I have to try and write this essay.

Obama Day

2009-01-20T08:46:00.000-08:00

8:43 am: I'm watching CNN. Obama is walking towards the crowd, head held high, smile broad. The crowd hasn't seen him yet, they're still quiet and anxiously waiting. But here he is, on camera, walking towards the future. Why does this make me cry?

8:49 am: A while ago, someone on CNN interviewed John Cusack. Cusack has been an Obama supporter since he ran for Senate. If Cusack is in, then so am I.

8:58 am: Biden has quite the tan, hey?

9:08 am: "My fellow citizens", not "my fellow Americans."

10:30 am: So what is it about Obama that makes me cry? Why do I, a Canadian, care so much? I think it's because I LIKE him. Okay, I've never met him, but I can relate to him, as most people can. He's been the weird kid, he's been the outsider, and we can all relate to that.

This Hour is 22 Minutes Too Long

2009-01-13T19:03:00.000-08:00

Canadian comedy is not funny. Why? Because it's fucking cheesy, that's why. I think perhaps Canadian comedy is only funny to those under the age of 10, and over the age of 55. Take Air Farce for example - does anyone actually laugh at those lame-ass jokes?
And Henrik, being the masochist that he is (it's one of the reasons I love him), has a tendency to linger on TV shows that he can't stand. I think he keeps hoping that, one day, he'll stumble upon some actual comedy.
Does anyone actually like Canadian comedy? If so, why? Please explain it to me...

drunk!

2008-11-07T21:22:00.000-08:00

My husband is watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas on TV. I just read Thompson's piece about motorcycle gangs for my journalism class. Both of us are drunk, although I'm probably more drunk thank he is... 1 bottle of wine to 4 beers + 1 sambuca shot for both of us (mine on fire, his not) = me more drunk, correct? I just watched Pot Psychology on Jezebel.com, and I think they're funny but... ummm... not very informative...
I've also done some "research" for my (big moment here) [potentially] first music review to be published in an actual publication! not just internet stuff! by watching Youtube videos of the bands I'm going to be reviewing tomorrow - one Swedish death metal (thank god I married a Swede), one Montreal symphonic metal, one... well, I forgot to look them up :)
Husband has changed the channel - now he's watching "Manswers" because, of course, he's a normal guy, and "Manswers" appeals to normal [straight] guys. And I have big boobs. Hence why he married me. Ask him about it sometime... he'll admit [or at least he should] that he's a completely normal, red-blooded, although not necessarily red-necked man.
Amazing that I can spell so well after a bottle of wine and [at least] one shot.
My point is this: update about my current creative endeavours.
1) I'm writing my first concert review tomorrow, for a local "metal" publication, to help my photographer friend get her pictures published. It's all working towards a goal though: we want to do something about the Nine Inch Nails concert in Victoria on December 5th. That is the biggest thing to happen in Victoria since the Pixies played here in 2003.
2) I'm currently copying the video of Joey Chaos's latest concert onto DVD so he can post it on YouTube. If you haven't checked out Joey Chaos yet, you really should, because he's awesome. And honestly, I'd much rather be reviewing goth shows than metal shows. Because goth is a field of interest for me [and husband too... we fell in love at a Sisters of Mercy concert...] more than metal. I don't understand metal, but I'm trying... and hopefully I'll understand it before tomorrow :)
3) Tribal Machine played that last show too, and I filmed parts of it. It's their first show since last year (or maybe January?) and if you're into the band (which you probably are, if you're reading my blog) then you know that the show was a big deal. But more than the show being sort of historical, it was... how you say... calming. It was NICE. Everyone had a great time, everyone got along, everyone felt at ease. It was a great show, because they were confident in their abilites. But also because they were cohesive. I don't know if I'll post anything from the show, but rest assured that SOMEONE has footage of it. And they have a new drummer. And he fits.
I hope to eventually make a video for Tribal Machine - Sever and I were going to meet this summer, but it didn't happen, probably because we both got lost in our own heads. I know I did, anyways. I spent 2 months in the apartment, doing nothing, but waking up at 7:30am every day nonetheless.
Now husband is watching "Fear and Loathing" again, and I have to say, Benicio Del Toro is highly underrated. So is Javier Bardem. An Oscar means nothing; public opinion is all that matters.
Have you ever been to the casino in the Port Place mall in Nanaimo? If not, next time you're in Nanaimo, I suggest you make a stop. It's the only place that's ever made me feel like I exist in the world of Hunter S. Thompson.
Now he's changed the channel again: to MMM, and the Dr. Drew show Celebrity Rehab. Rodney King is on Celebrity Rehab. I think this is a great psychological study: how can somene cope when they've become more of a symbol than a human being? Answer: they can't. That's why he's on Celebrity Rehab.
Now to CNN: Larry King interviewing Maya Angelou. The first poet I ever recognized, the first book of poetry I ever bought, was by Maya Angelou. The first poem that ever struck me, despite the fact that I'm white, was Still I Rise. And now (!) she's reciting it on Larry King! You may write me down in history/ with your bitter, twisted lies / you may trod me in the very dirt / but still, like dust, I rise.
Larry King says "you know, you are a poet." Ummmm.... yeah. of course she is.
At the inaugural: "I shall be the tall black lady, smiling."

Media Reading

2008-09-18T09:00:00.000-07:00

So, for one of my classes this term, I have to keep track of my "media reading habits", then write a paper on it. I thought "why not take it one step further" and turn my media reading habits into actual media?
So here's my first piece of observation about my own habits: I'm obsessed with Sarah Palin. Or, more to the point, I'm obsessed with bad news about Sarah Palin. Here are the headlines from the Victoria Times Colonist website this morning:

Drug addicts shun mobile needle exchange
Canada's reputed Godfather pleads guilty in mob case
Air Canada drops second bag surcharge
BC NDP candidate Larsen quits over drug links
11,800 infractions in parks, but just 30 tickets issued
Pro baseball coming to Victoria
Victoria man's Craiglist ad to sell vote draws rebuke from Elections Canada
Kids left in unsafe homes: watchdog
Hackers infiltrate Palin's email account
Probe of Liberal MLA linked to accused in legislature raid
Convict banned from prison after spying on conjugal visit

I head straight for the Palin link.
Why?
One, because she's big news right now.
Two, because she's a woman and she's big news right now.
Three, because she's hypocritical and a woman and big news right now.
Four, because she's the antithesis of everything I stand for, hypocritical, a woman, and big news right now.
Five, because I'm a woman myself, and women love to hear bad things about each other.
Six, because the name "Palin" is associated with a few key words: oil, abortion, hunting. I disagree with her on all three of these things. I passionately disagree with her on the second and third ones.

I think I'm focused on a few particular issues, and that my reading habits tend towards them. I'm interested in feminism (and let's put reproductive rights under this heading as well), immigration, education, and pop culture. Although I've stopped reading tmz.com - it's too exploitative.
Why am I focused on these issues? They all personally affect me. I'm female, I'm a student, I'm married to an immigrant, I used to work in the "film industry". I've been touched by all of these things at one point or another.
Hmmm. Can't go much deeper than that at the moment except to say that the Palin link is the only one that had anything to do with my "key issues", and in fact it touches on ALL of them except immigration. Palin drives me crazy, as does McCain these days, because I don't understand how these two can live in THIS WORLD and have THEIR VIEWS. Have they never been outside before???
Oh... here's another issue, something I used to get really mad about. I'm Canadian, Canada's about to have an election too, shouldn't my efforts be focused on that instead of on the country next door? Yes, it should. But.. well... the truth is... Canadian politics is BORING. I don't know if that's because Canadians in general are boring (I don't think so) or because Canadian politicians are much too polite, much too polished to generate any buzz. Bring back Chretien, I say! At least he was interesting. At least he punched a guy in the face, not to mention the whole "No George Bush we're not going to help you invade Iraq" thing. Canadian politics these days seem to have replaced passion with douchiness, and when I hear a douchebag speak, I can't listen to anything coming out of its mouth. It turns into the "wah wah" of Charlie Brown's teacher. I can't relate to any of the candidates, for two reasons: 1) I don't know much about the candidates personally (they're all so professional, aren't they?) 2) They're all white men (except for the Green Party, who have no real chance of winning) and they spend their time slamming each other's policies instead of trying to make a difference.
Okay... that's about all I have for now. Need more coffee.

Crafternoons and Coffee Spoons

2008-06-30T08:48:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I went to Dani's place for an afternoon of glue guns, Micro Machines, and Long Island iced teas. When I came home I discovered I'd also made a bunch of hair notions:

Rachel and Bob

2008-06-30T08:08:00.000-07:00

So, being a newlywed (Feb 26th, 2007 y'all), I've developed a taste for wedding and marriage-related TV shows: Wife Swap, Wedding SOS, and, most of all, a little thing on the Slice network called Newlywed Nearly Dead. Sometimes they'll show Saturday afternoon marathons of this show, and I'm glued; no matter how bright the sun is shining, or how much my entropied legs demand movement, I'm stuck watching these people try to work though their relationship issues.
This week's episode involved a couple named Bob and Rachel. Rachel is three months pregnant with their first child, and Bob is... ummm... balding. And has a tendency to spike his hair. Which is never a good look for a balding man. But anyways... the couple's issues revolve around two very important words: money and privacy.
First, money: it doesn't seem like they have a lot of it. And what they DO have, Rachel spends before it's even in the bank account. She buys purses, jewellery, luxury items. And Bob is worried that when the baby comes, Rachel won't be able to stop shopping, and they'll be financially ruined. Rachel, for her part, is oblivious to Bob's money worries. At one point during the show, while bidding on some ebay auctions, she turns to Bob and says (I paraphrase) "just because we don't have the money to afford the things we want doesn't mean we can't buy the things we want." His response: "yes! It does!"
Second, privacy: Bob likes his alone time, and the only place he can escape from the constant stress of his wife is in the bathroom. Or is it? Seems that the only way Bob can even be alone in the BATHROOM is if he locks the door - if he doesn't, Rachel bursts in whenever she wants to, whatever Bob's in the middle of, if you know what I mean. Despite constant appeals to let him be alone on the toilet, Rachel cannot let her poor husband BE! I mean, what does she think he's doing in there?
I'd like to think I'm not a judgmental person, but when it comes to TV, everyone is fair game. Apologies to Bob (and especially to Rachel), but if you put yourselves out there, you're going to be scrutinized. And I just have to say... Rachel... what the hell is wrong with you? For one thing, why the hell are you so desperate to get into the bathroom? Do you think Bob's having a party in there or something? And for another, what hole are you trying to fill with all the shopping? Maybe instead of buying clothes, you should get a hobby...
I love watching these shows with my husband, because we both think they're hilarious. Do people actually live like that? How do they manage to get dressed in the morning? I know TV shows are edited for impact, but still, the things you see on this show ACTUALLY HAPPENED. Even if it's edited for impact, these people (Rachel) are still spending hundreds of dollars on useless shit, still trying to break into the bathroom, still trying to justify their own stupid ways with weak arguments.
I didn't watch the end of the show (I was too frustrated with Rachel's complete disregard for the outside world!) but I hope that Bob and Rachel worked out their problems. I don't want to be one to give "marriage advice", I haven't been married long enough to do that, but from watching these shows I've determined that almost all relationship issues can be boiled down to one single word. Communication. If you hide things from your partner, be it opinions or credit card bills, your relationship is on a path to doom.

The sun is out... and all I want to do is sleep.

2008-06-28T11:41:00.000-07:00

My goal for this summer, since I'm out of school and unemployed, is to write. Or blog. Or whatever you want to call it. So far I've written... nothing. Granted, my classes ended on Thursday (my University summer school, I think, ended the same day as high school...) but I still feel like I should be doing MORE. I won't whine. The only thing to do is write more.
So here's my commitment for the summer: I'm going to blog about everything, whether it be a community event (Victoria Tall Ships, anyone?), a TV show (what's up with all these Japanese-inspired game shows?), or a small observation. But this isn't a diary (and hopefully it doesn't turn into one..)
So I'm asking for your help, my one loyal reader. When I get too "personal" or "whiny" or "TMI", tell me. I don't want to keep shouting the "poetic truths of high school journal-keepers." My 10-year reunion is like two weeks from now! I need to move on.
"Your 10-year reunion is two weeks from now?" you ask. Yes, it is. And no, I'm not going. Nothing personal to my classmates, I just... well, reasoning is twofold. First, I have nothing to say to those people. I didn't keep many friends after high school, and the ones I DID keep are distant now. Not only would it be awkward to see these people, basically strangers, that I went to school with... it would be even more awkward to see the people I used to be close with. Yeah, no, I'm not in the mood for "past friend reunions" either... that's what Facebook is for. If I can't be bothered to leave a comment on their wall...
Second, reunions, you're supposed to be impressive. Right? You're supposed to say you invented Post-Its or that you're an astronaut cowboy or a hired assassin. I'm none of those things, and more than that, I'm a bad liar. (Actually, no, I'm a really GOOD liar... but the sun has made me lazy. See above.) I don't even have a baby to wind up and set loose on the picnic blanket, like most of my classmates do. And I know the pressure's all in my head - our Valedictorian is, last I heard, a delivery driver at a Chinese restaurant - but still. I always expected I'd be some sort of "professional" by now. I didn't think I'd be in University at the age of 27.
27. Eeeeek.

Another movie review

2008-04-24T10:26:00.001-07:00

Morvern Callar

Now, I'll admit that I'd never heard of this film before I read a glowing review of it, a few weeks ago, on the Onion AVClub site. They made it sound so cool that I immediately went out and rented it. My video store has everything, I must say. And I was excited to see it, because the AVClub has never steered me wrong.
I guess there's a first time for everything, though.
So here's the tale of Morvern Callar if you haven't heard it before. Morvern is a young girl in... Glasgow, I think? She works in a grocery store. She's going out with a writer, whom her friends refer to as "Dostoevsky". In the opening shot of the film, boyfriend is dead, his wrists slit, his body in a pool of blood mid-way between the kitchen and the living room. Morvern finds him, and spends the rest of the movie trying to deal with his death in a variety of ways: drugs, music, escape, staring off into space, painting her nails, shopping, and most of all NOT TELLING ANYONE HE'S DEAD. And when she finally does tell someone, they're too absorbed in their own life to hear what she's saying.
The film is built around lush, moody landscapes, and a lot of scenes are anchored by sweeping shots designed to elicit emotion. Which is a good thing, because the characters don't exude enough emotion to anchor a film. Maybe this was on purpose... see, I'm writing this "review" to figure out what I actually think of the film. My initial reaction was to hate it, and my second reaction is to love it because if I don't, then I "don't get it." And that's unforgivable.
So. Where was I. The film is anchored by sweeping panoramics, slow dolly shots, and many (many) montages of Morvern (alone or with a friend) walking, staring off into space, sticking head out of car window, observing the world without actually seeing it. One has to assume these are on purpose, because there are so many of them. So then one has to determine their purpose. This is where I have trouble.
Okay, I'll admit, the movie is beautiful in its own special way. There's definitely never been a movie like it before. But I can't say I enjoyed it, or that I ever want to see it again, and this is why. I didn't understand Morvern's motivations. She's the anchor (and title) of the film, and is on-screen the entire time. But I didn't like her. No... not that I didn't like her, I didn't understand why she acted the way she did. Maybe what bothered me the most was knowing that Morvern Callar was a book before it was a movie, and one (who hasn't read the book) can only imagine that there's more detail and explanation on the page than there was on the screen. Maybe the book goes inside the title character's head, records her thoughts, and explains why she decides not to tell anyone about her boyfriend's suicide? If I'd known that one thing, that one tiny little thing, I could have loved this movie.
Instead, the best I can do is say I loved "parts" of it. I loved the scenes where Morvern is wearing her walkman, listening to the special mix tape her boyfriend made before his suicide, and imagining the emotions I would go through in that same situation. But... she shows no emotion. Instead she stares dreamily off into space through songs by musicians from Aphex Twin to The Mommas and the Poppas. She wears her walkman in a nightclub and wanders through the crowds. She wears her walkman in the grocery store and everything seems to move in slow motion. She... well. That's it, really. I used to wish I could live a life in montage. But after seeing this movie, seeing someone else's life in montage, the wish is gone. Thanks.
My biggest complaint about this movie is that I couldn't get LOST in it, and what I wanted, more than anything, was to lose myself. But there were so many loose ends, so many unanswered questions, that my brain just wouldn't shut up and let me enjoy the ride. For one, it's never explained why the boyfriend kills himself. Two, it's never explained why Morvern doesn't tell people he's dead. Three, where are these people's families? Do they not check up on their kids from time to time? Four, have you ever heard of an unknown first-time author getting a 6-figure advance? Five, where is Morvern getting all the drugs that she's obviously taking? Six, even if she doesn't tell anyone, does nobody realize he's dead? Doesn't he have any friends of his own? Seven, and most important: does she actually read the book her boyfriend wrote?
All in all, hmmmm.... well, I'd recommend this movie if you're not in the mood for logic. It IS beautiful and interesting. But only, and I repeat ONLY, watch this movie if you're melancholy, or high, or otherwise able to dismiss logic. If you're not in the right state of mind, this film will just drive you crazy.

blah

2008-03-22T11:56:00.000-07:00

Blog postings should always be of note, right? Well, unfortunately, this one isn't. It's noon and I've just woken up. It feels like early morning... no cars on the street, no sunlight, no sounds except the fan behind me. "I should write" I say to myself, "I have two articles waiting for completion." One is due on Thursday, the other in two weeks. But I can't bring myself to do either of them. I want to, I have outlines ready and know what I'm going to say. I know I write better if I do multiple drafts. But I just can't do it.
I know the best thing to do is to work through the frustration and get words to... screen. But I can't work on these articles. Not just yet.

henrik and I watched two movies last night: "Eastern Promises" and "Into The Wild" and while, on the surface, it would seem these movies have nothing in common, I did find a few similarities:
1) the obvious - both have full-frontal male nudity. Eastern Promises has an amazing fight scene in a bathhouse, while Into The Wild shows the main character Chris McCandless/Alexander Supertramp floating naked down a river.
2) the main characters in both stories - Nikolai in Eastern Promises (played by Viggo Mortensen) and Alex in Into The Wild (played by Emile Hirsch) tell their life stories in pictures. Nikolai has tattoos all over his body showing where he has been, what he's done, and if he's been true to his people. Alex is taught how to carve leather, and he proceeds to carve the story of his travels onto a belt, which he wears every day until his (spoiler alert!) death.

I was disappointed with Into the Wild. I was hoping other critics had been wrong, that perhaps there was a bias in the industry against Sean Penn, or that the critics hadn't read the book or something. But no, the movie is as bad as all the reviews claim.
I'm going to write this to you assuming you've read the book, and if you haven't, apologies. I read the book last year, over Christmas, and while it isn't my favourite book of all time, one has to congratulate John Krakauer on the amount of research he did.
So, with that said, why was John Krakauer not in the movie? When I read Into The Wild, I was acutely aware that I was reading the voice of Mr. Krakauer, someone so interested in this story that he followed a trail of bread crumbs around North America, trying to piece together the life of this dumb-shit guy who died in the woods. Krakauer added a lot of psychological and philosophical depth to Alex, and Sean Penn turned that research into one drunken bar scene where Hirsch and his friend Vince Vaughn yell "society!!!" over and over. If Krakauer had been a character in the movie, too, they could have used the great scene at the end of the book where the parents visit the bus. That was the best scene in the book, for me, because it showed Alex's father as a human being with real emotions.
Now I'll admit I'm biased against Alex (sorry, Chris) after reading the book, and this caused a bit of an argument between Henrik and I while we were watching the movie. I says to Henrik, I says "through all Alex's travels, all the places he goes and people he meets, he doesn't reach any new insight about his family issues. He's not LEARNING anything. So why the hell should we care about him?" People ask him over and over about his family, tell him that family is the most important thing in the world, and he ignores them. He's so scared of his feelings (and possibly of his father) that he'd rather live in the woods than talk to his family. I just don't get it. Henrik says to me, "people deal with things in different ways. Just because it's not the way you'd do it doesn't mean he's stupid."
No, but see, he IS stupid. Another discussion we had during the movie:
Me: I'm upset that they don't establish, from the beginning, that the kid's gonna die. If you knew that right away, the movie would have a whole different flavour, wouldn't it?
Henrik: yeah, it definitely would.
Me: Do you think that NOT establishing his death early on... do you think it glorifies his life?
Henrik: Possibly.
I'd say definitely. Not only do they leave out one key fact about Alex's travels - that he refused to take a map of Alaska, and if he had he would have known there was a ranger station just a few miles from the bus - but they (meaning Sean Penn) make it seem as though living alone in a bus is the height of philosophical ecstasy. It's all clouds and mountaintops, clear running water and slow-motion animals, sweeping helicopter panoramas and the like. My personal favourite shot was a slow-motion shower scene where Alex shakes his head from side to side, and the drops of water spray out and around him to make a kind of watery halo. Subtle. I saw Penn's first film, The Crossing Guard, a few years ago, and I can't say I remember too much about it. But I can say this: Into the Wild feels amateurish, like the work of a recent film-school grad trying to impress a girl with his mad skills. It feels like Penn is completely disconnected from his audience. It feels like the movie wasn't so much a movie as an essay or scientific thesis: "in this paper I intend to prove that Alexander Supertramp had everything right and the rest of the world has it wrong." No-one likes to be lectured, and it seems like that's all Sean Penn knows how to do.
In conclusion, sure, go and see this movie if you haven't already. But if you read the book and, like me, left it feeling like Alex was kind of an idiot, you're probably not going to like Sean Penn's rendition of the tale. Krakauer's book explores all sides of the story, while the movie chooses one idea and runs with it.

Immigration

2008-02-11T15:23:00.000-08:00

My husband, who moved to Canada in September 2006 from Sweden, got his work permit in the mail on Friday. The government has decided he's allowed to pay taxes! Finally! Oh wait.. no... he still has to pay $500, a "right of residency" fee. Could you imagine if everyone, including natural-born citizens, had to pay a right of residency fee? What if, upon your birth, your parents had to pay the thousands of dollars H has had to pay for the privilege of working in this country? For the privilege of simply BEING in this country?
And think of it if the situation were reversed: for me to immigrate to Sweden, as H's spouse, I have to fill out a 3-page questionnaire and photocopy my passport. There's a small fee - maybe 100 euros? I'll have to look that up. But it's nowhere near the thousands of dollars H has had to pay for Canadian permanent residence.
Sweden is WAY smaller than Canada, geographically speaking. They have way less room than we do. So why are we being so hard on our immigrants? The more legal immigrants we have, the more tax revenue we'll receive. And for the small percentage who arrive in Canada with the intention of selling drugs or otherwise ripping shit up, there's a large percentage who just wants the chance to live a happy life.
Okay... I know... 9-11. But H is SWEDISH, fer goshsakes. He has no criminal record, no political leanings, no red flags at all (except for liking metal, in fact, he's a regular Joe Wholesome...). He moved here for love, and all he's asking is for the chance to pay his own way.
Thank you, government, for finally giving my husband a work permit. I don't want to sound ungrateful, because I'm very happy that he'll be able to work (and I'll be able to quit my job and focus on school.) But why has it taken so long? I know for a fact it took the case worker LESS THAN A DAY to go through all the information... I know that because he told us so. So why has it taken 17 months to get to this stage?